Part III: Abjection
by Azolean
Summary: A Baker Street Christmas
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **Sorry for the long notes, I'm doing this so I don't have to interrupt other chapters later more than strictly necessary. Please read. _

_Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed up to this point. I am glad to hear that some liked what I've done so far. This little piece here was actually meant as a one-shot SH bit of fluff that grew out of control. I believe it will fit in here as a sort of interlude that maybe addresses a couple of issues as a continuation of the last two pieces. But, both characters needing a break from the self-inflicted mental trauma running rampant through this story, I can't promise what will happen. _

_And the original piece of fluff was inspired by Holmes' decorating of his chemistry set in the Grenada episode "The Cardboard Box". In Grenada, it happened many years after "The Final Problem". In the canon, the same story is accepted to have taken place in August of 1889. My brain took the images and combined them with the canon timeline in a very curious way. Aside from BLUE, there are no other ACD stories addressing the holidays that I could recall. How much to we really know about how the two of them spent their Christmas? Therefore, there was plenty of room for this to have fit into the 1894 holiday season. However, if I am wrong in this assumption and my memory is failing, please feel free to smack me upside the head with a canon reference. _

_Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to go ahead and offer up my OOC warning here. What I thought was a pretty much pre-written chunk of story is currently re-writing itself to better fit the theme of the overall mess I've started. _

_By the way, after this third clue in the form of the definition I've posted here, does anyone want to venture a guess as to what the theme is for these five parts? Additional Hint: they're not in the "traditional" order usually presented. _

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_**de·pres·sion**_

_ 1. Severe despondency and dejection, accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy._

_ 1. A condition of mental disturbance, typically with lack of energy and difficulty in maintaining concentration or interest in life._

* * *

**Prologue**

Watson laughed.

Holmes fumed.

Lestrade choked.

Mrs. Hudson glared.

The standoff continued.

Watson stifled his laughter.

Holmes' face went red to his hairline.

Lestrade roared with open laughter.

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms, waiting patiently.

"Oh very well then!" Holmes snapped. After a deep breath, he growled out, "I apologize for the misuse of your kitchen, Mrs. Hudson."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. As I'm sure you can deduce, you gentlemen are on your own for the night. Good evening."

With that, the formidable woman Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes knew as a landlady—and sometimes more—exited the room, still liberally coated in various debris from her kitchen. Holmes cloaked in what dignity he had left, turned to face the other two occupants of the room. Watson's mustache bristled as his lips still twitched with barely concealed mirth, while Lestrade still chuckled behind his hand. Catching sight of the gleam in Watson's eyes, Holmes could no longer contain his own mirth. His embarrassment aside, it really was quite funny.

Before long the three of them were left barely standing as they leaned on one another laughing uproariously. Watson carefully managed to maneuver the other two toward seats before they all found themselves on the floor. Though it made his still-healing ribs ache to laugh so very deeply, he could not help but relish the moment. As he all but collapsed into a chair himself, holding his ribs gently with one arm, he waved off Holmes' concern and Lestrade's calculating glance. Finally they all took several deep breaths in an attempt to regain some sense of self-control.

"Baking soda."

"Vinegar."

Lestrade's statement made in confused wonder followed by Holmes declaration as if in blame soon had all three of them roaring with laughter again. It was several minutes later that they finally managed to stop more out of exhaustion than any sort of will-power. Watson, wiping the last tears from the corner of his eyes, happily reached for the pot of tea Mrs. Hudson had kindly left.

"Well, it would seem you gentlemen have dinner arrangements to make, so I will take my leave. Thank you for your assistance, Dr. Watson."

Watson changed direction and walked Lestrade out. Turning back toward the fire, he spied Holmes just filling his pipe. Though he couldn't tell if Holmes' face was still pink from the laughter, or freshly painted with the knowledge of what was about to come next. Watson decided to take pity on him.

"Simpson's?"

Holmes ducked his head once, still focusing entirely on his pipe as if refusing to meet his eyes.

"Alright, Holmes?" Watson queried gently, not quite sure what kind of response he was likely to get with his friend so obviously discomfited.

Lighting his pipe to his satisfaction, Holmes threw the match into the grate testily. "How was I supposed to know she was planning on pickling?! And in those jars?! Afterall, it was only a residue."

To this, Watson could only snort as he again tried to stifle some rather undignified giggles. Holmes glared for a moment, before sitting back more comfortably in his chair beside the fire. Deciding to join him, Watson prepared himself a cup of tea and reclined with a satisfied groan into his own chair. As usual, Watson pretended not to notice as Holmes eyed him critically and they both said nothing for a few minutes, soaking up the warmth and quiet of their surroundings.

In the four weeks Watson gave himself to complete his recovery from the beating he had received at the hands of a small band of ruffians on the east side of London, the two had talked about many things. Though neither really broached the subjects that had brought them to such a juncture, their conversations had definitely taken on a more open feel. Both guarded their own secrets; but that was nothing new for either of them. Watson's health continued to improve even beyond what Holmes had expected. A new sense of life and purpose filled the man, though Holmes had yet to take him back out on another case.

Of course, Holmes had been furious for the better part of a day when he woke to find Watson had simply disappeared before the sun had even risen. At the time he wasn't sure if he was more angry with himself for letting it happen, or Watson for not saying anything before his morning venture. When the man had returned safe, but slightly sore and limping shortly after lunch time, their conversation had rivaled the sitting room fire for the heat. The knock on the door that interrupted them had Watson bounding from the sitting room smiling. Holmes didn't have to wait long for his brain to accumulate enough data to draw a conclusion. It took only a matter of minutes for Watson to return cheerfully toting his bag as he bid Holmes a good day.

Minutes later, Holmes carefully followed Watson and his young client down the crowded streets. His disguise slap-dash at best meant he had to be more careful than usual not to be spotted. After what felt like miles of walking, Watson was led into a rather shabby building. He decided the best vantage to watch the unknown inhabitants of this dwelling was from a shadowy nook across the street. He paid off the beggar and settled into that former spot huddling out of the chilly wind. Holmes barely had enough time to realize he should have found a way of concealing a warmer coat beneath the costume before the same little boy he had seen leading Watson reappeared in the doorway. It had taken the child all of a few seconds to make a beeline straight for the detective.

"Dr. Watson said to tell you he should be back in time for dinner and you should have plenty of time to get a coat."

This statement delivered with absolute childish innocence left Holmes staring.

"Is there a return message, sir?" the child asked politely.

Holmes, still in a fit of temper, bit back the first reply that came to mind. "Please tell Dr. Watson thank you, but I must decline."

With that, the child was off like a shot back to the warmth of his humble abode. With mixed amusement and ire, Holmes considered his current position. It did not entirely surprise him that this newer, more alert Watson had spotted him so easily. He had not had much time to prepare his costume. Obviously Watson was back to building something of an informal medical practice, as he had yet to make any mention of acquiring a new office. Only days ago he had been shuffling about the sitting room doing his best to hide the lingering pain from his flatmate!

Holmes scowled darkly wondering why it was his friend had not confided in him. He went back to eyeing the front of the house ignoring his growing discomfort. He let these thoughts chase themselves around his head for hours as he waited for Watson to reappear in the doorway. To his surprise, it was shortly before sunset when he was startled by a limping step directly in his line of sight as Watson approached from the left.

"Did you make any interesting deductions about the Simmons family?" Watson asked a little too innocently.

The mischievous glint in his friend's green eyes effectively doused the surprised irritation. With a grateful sigh, Holmes straightened from his cramped position on the cold sidewalk.

"I believe Mrs. Hudson was planning on some fine pheasant this evening," Watson commented blithely.

Holmes grunted something unintelligible before stating, "Back door."

Watson nodded. "And?"

"At least three patients, counting the one you saw here."

"Good. I was beginning to get the impression your skills were rusting, sitting around the house all day with nothing to do."

Holmes barked a laugh. "Touche, old chap. Very well, then. I concede the victory to you."

"Wise decision," Watson returned with a grin. "I did not relish the idea of one or both of us chased out of the house by Mrs. Hudson."

"We have been rather trying on her of late," Holmes agreed.

Holmes had been refusing cases for some time, justifying this by using Watson as an excuse. This had tried on Watson's patience as the man continued to act as if Watson was needing a keeper. Watson, also suffering from a lack of activity, had tried to do what he could to occupy himself and convince Holmes it was time to start taking cases again. When all his combined efforts failed, he opted out of the argument he knew would happen by devising his own plans when he thought the detective wasn't looking. Now having taken to making some rounds, obviously without incident or undue strain to his health, the point had been clearly proven.

And with that, the matter was settled...mostly. It quickly became something of a game between the two. During the next couple of weeks, Holmes found himself flooded with a string of cases that involved little more than some thought and an occasional sharing of ideas with Watson. This not being nearly enough for him, he took to following Watson. Watson, knowing that this was more for fun and diversion for his friend than any sense of concern, did his level best to evade the detective and leave him deducing for himself over dinner where Watson had been through the day.

For his part, Watson could not fathom what had changed in the detective. Despite weeks of little or nothing to do, Holmes had yet to fall into another one of his black moods. His humor had improved greatly, as had Watson's own. The only interruption to their routine had happened early on in Watson's recovery when Holmes finally confessed to having read the journal. Watson's initial reaction of mortification that left him red in the face, mistakenly led Holmes to retreating to his own room. In Watson's mind he wondered if he could ever face the man again. Little did he know the detective had felt very much the same himself over what he thought had been a betrayal.

Watson, knowing why Holmes had done so, felt no sense of betrayal or loss of trust in his friend. As usual, it was up to Watson to break the stalemate. He refused to let his own humiliation stand between them at this point. Summoning his courage, he knocked on Holmes' door. Silently he handed over the sketches he had made of autumn scenes while idly doodling. He met Holmes' eyes with determination before he turned back to the fire and tossed the remaining parts of the mostly unused journal into the flames. Calmly he resumed his seat. He took some pride in the fact that his hands remained steady as he waited for Holmes' decision.

His curiosity winning out, Holmes came around Watson's chair and resumed his own seat. For several seconds the two eyed each other wondering where to even begin. Obviously, Watson had left the next move up to Holmes. Glancing down at the sketches he still held delicately in his one hand, Holmes racked his brain.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally blurted.

Appreciating his friend's discomfort, Watson leaped on the opportunity the question's vagueness had left him. "It was a passing hobby, nothing more."

For a moment Holmes blinked as this diverted answer gave him nothing he had been seeking. However, he was willing to let Watson speak in his own time, and was more than happy to get this much. "Quite detailed for just a hobby. May I ask how long you have known of such a talent?"

This was high praise indeed coming from Holmes, with his family's background in art. Watson could not help the grin that followed this compliment. The two entered into a discussion from there that left Holmes gaping at how little the man knew technically in various forms of art—even his own! But this made the sketches the man did all the more amazing to him as it had obviously come so naturally, rather than through any professional study or instruction. Unlike the phoenix, the spirits in the the journal remained among the ashes never to return.


	2. Chapter One

_**A/N: **Stupidly enough, after hours and hours of research, I have come to the conclusion that I'm going to just have to take some creative license here. While I'm well aware of the weather conditions through the weeks of December 1894, I cannot for the life of me remember if there was any specific date that was considered traditional (beyond that of Christmas Eve) in which to begin decorating for the Christmas Holiday in those latter years of the 19th Century. So, I'll admit to some creative license in regard to the weather conditions both here and in the following chapters. And I will admit to my ignorance leading to creative license in regards to acceptable decorating times for the holiday._

_If anyone possesses this knowledge or where to find it, please help me._

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**Chapter One**

Holmes and Watson both silently cursed the day's events that led them to having to walk in the chilly wind and rain on their way back from Simpson's. Unable to find another cab as all of them were already taken in this foul November weather, Holmes kept pace with Watson's hurried steps. Mindful not to push his friend beyond his limping limits, he kept scanning the streets for anything with wheels that seemed unoccupied. It seemed forever before his sharp eyes penetrated the sheets of rain to locate and acquire a ride the rest of the way back to their rooms. Together they rode in silence, the rain being too much noise to bother attempting conversation.

Upon reaching their destination, the two agreed to enter as quietly as humanly possible to avoid drawing the attention of their likely as not still angry landlady. They disappeared to their rooms to change out of the wet clothes before returning to warmth of the sitting room fire. The two of them were not entirely disappointed to discover their plan had failed. Mrs. Hudson had left a fresh pot of steaming tea on the table. Apparently they could use some lessons in stealth from their landlady. Grinning to each other like kids having been caught playing in puddles, they quickly prepared cups with a generous splash of brandy.

After several minutes relaxing into the warmth, Holmes eyed Watson carefully as his hands seemed to twitch restlessly. Feeling his own restless fingers moving, Holmes set aside his cup and pipe and picked up his violin. He was gratified to see Watson's distant expression sharpen in delight. Knowing he'd made the right decision to forgo further conversation that evening, he set to playing several of their shared favorites. He was somewhat surprised when the returned to the present to find Watson's chair empty. The gentle shuffling of papers behind him from Watson's desk alerted him to the man's location as he carefully put the instrument back in its case.

"More dabbling with your hobby?" Holmes drawled with sarcastic emphasis on this last word as he resisted the urge to pester the man into sharing.

Rising from his desk with a nod, Watson wandered back over to his own chair stifling a yawn. "I always wondered if either Sherlock or Elizabeth would inherit it, since there seems no previous history in my own family."

Holmes swallowed his shock at Watson's having voluntarily mentioned a subject that had thus far remained taboo in their conversations. "Well, you have seen quite clearly from my own lack of skill that it is not always an inherited trait."

"As you said, though, an artistic bent may present itself in a variety of forms. And Mary had no small talent of her own."

The conversation lapsed into silence as Watson's eyes seemed to grow distant. The wistful expression was sad, but no more than that, Holmes was happy to note. As Watson continued to gaze into the fire, Holmes waited patiently. His friend did not disappoint. For the first time Watson openly discussed his adventures in early fatherhood. Many of the little anecdotes incited Holmes' imagination to produce a variety of mental images that were less than flattering of his dear friend. Their combined laughter warmed the sitting room in a way the fire could never hope to achieve.

~o~o~o~

Over the next few weeks, life had taken on a normalcy both could recalling having despaired of ever knowing again. Holmes took to his new cases dragging Watson along as his friend's time permitted. He ceased to worry about his friend's physical condition as he gradually began to return to health more robust than he could remember in some time. Watson, never complained as the long days and sometimes longer nights kept them both busy. As the mild weather continued to accommodate various criminal activities, he found himself splitting his time almost evenly between his two assumed duties. Holmes was gratified at having seen his friend tired, but satisfied in a way he hadn't since their early days together at Baker Street.

The weeks of November and early December flew by in a constant blur of activity for the both of them. The weather that had been so mild initially swiftly grew vicious and dangerous almost overnight in the second week of December. While Holmes' near constant string of investigations swiftly declined, Watson's calls upon his time for countless cases of illness and injury kept him away for longer and longer hours. It wasn't long before Holmes was only able to catch his flatmate in passing as he was either coming or going. Brief though that contact may have been, it was enough to alert Holmes to the change in his friend's demeanor.

Watson continued to eat heartily and outwardly gave the impression of a happy, healthy man. The lines of exhaustion that crept into his features were not unfamiliar, but did not appear to be caused by previous night-time ramblings so much as a legitimate lack of sleep from house calls and overnight vigils. And yet, his smiles seemed more subdued as December marched swiftly past the pair. His eyes had lost some of their luster. When gently questioned, Watson predictable reply was nothing more than being tired.

By the middle of the third week of December, Holmes caught Watson staring out of the window into the mists of gently falling snow. Obviously his friend had not heard him enter the sitting room, as he never turned away from where he stood. Holmes' mind suddenly superimposed this image of his Watson with one he remembered from earlier days when the snow made his friend smile with childlike delight. He now wondered why it was that his friend seemed so depressed. His declining mood had only very recently begun. The only comfort he could find this time was in the fact that Watson had done little to hide it from him.

"I miss them, Holmes. That is all."

These words startled Holmes out of his little reverie. Only now realizing he had been staring holes into the back of his friend's head, Holmes pushed all other thoughts to the side. The words, though meant to be reassuring, instead stirred up disquiet in his heart. He frowned slightly, moving toward the tea set out on the table.

"Would it help if I listened?"

Watson's smile truly reached his eyes this time as he turned to eye his friend with some amusement. For all the man's intuitions about people and their intentions, he never ceased to surprise Watson with the gaps in his other knowledge. Questions like these reminded them both of his deficiencies in social behavior. But, he could not fault the man's attempts to at least make up for it where his friend was concerned. Despite his extreme dislike for emotional displays, he seemed more than willing to make attempts at what was considered more normal behavior when it involved Watson.

"Possibly, but you need not concern yourself. I was just stopping for some fresh clothes."

The visible disappointment that flashed across Holmes' face for just one instant made Watson wonder for a moment.

"Later, perhaps," Watson said. "For now, I need to stop by the apothecary."

"Shall I tell Mrs. Hudson to expect you for dinner, then?" Holmes asked more brightly.

"With any luck, it shall be so."

Holmes attention had already returned to the perusal of some papers lying on his desk as Watson shrugged back into his damp coat and left quietly. Watching his friend from the window, Holmes wondered if he had made a mistake. Watson had not deliberately avoided conversations of late in regards to certain subjects; it had been quite the opposite, in fact. But he considered now that it may be having an opposite effect on his friend. As the days came and went, his friend seemed to sink deeper once more.

Frowning darkly, Holmes considered some of the finer details of the last couple of weeks. He began to realize that some of Watson's activities and conversations had an almost desperate feel to them. He wondered that his friend seemed to want to stay busy, stay exhausted. It was as if he was denying something to himself all over again. Though the depression had not reached as deeply, there seemed something even deeper driving it.

Holmes' musings were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson. She had come to collect the tea tray and brought something with her that made Holmes recoil momentarily. The little decorated tree she sat defiantly on the table where the tray had been only moments before. Having fully expected the battle to come, she propped the tray on one hip and firmly planted her hand on the other.

"It's a Christmas tree," Holmes stated with less than his usual authoritative grace.

"It doesn't take a great detective to figure that out," she snorted in a most unladylike fashion.

"He misses them," Holmes said, the light of understanding dawning behind those gray eyes.

"I shouldn't wonder, considering your opinion on—"

"No, no, no," Holmes cut her off with a glare. "He misses his family. How could I have been...I can't believe I...How stupid!"

Not entirely sure what her more eccentric tenant was on about, she cocked her head curiously. "You didn't know?"

"Of course I knew! I just didn't..."

The gleam of inspiration in Holmes' gray eyes as he suddenly focused entirely on the woman before him was one that inspired fear even in her stout heart.

"Mrs. Hudson, do you have any plans this Christmas?"


	3. Chapter Two

_**A/N: **Virtual cookies to **medcat** for her successful guess! Anyone else want to take a shot?_

_**Riandra: **Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews. I can't begin to tell you how much they all mean to me. _

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**Chapter Two**

It took Holmes less than a day to set his plans for the coming holiday. All he could do from there was hope that it was not as ridiculous as it seemed and Watson's patients would accommodate. In the last week leading up to Christmas, the man seemed too tired to notice much more than the coming and going of the hours. Holmes stood by and watched as Watson found he no longer even had the energy for some light-hearted, meaningless conversations. Often he would take his usual seat beside the fire, and be snoozing shortly thereafter—when he was home at all!

Holmes knew the sudden change in weather was the blame, but he couldn't help being at least mildly irritated at Watson's total lack of interest in even his more complex cases. They were few enough of late that he thought they should spark some interest. It wasn't until three days after Holmes had allowed Mrs. Hudson to decorate the sitting room along with the rest of the house that Watson even noticed. And, even that much had not dawned on the man until Holmes found himself batting a ribbon out of the way on the mantle to gain access to his matches.

"She decorated!"

Holmes grunted something as he lit his pipe before exhaling a cloud of blue-gray smoke. "Of course she did."

Watson's wide green eyes finally took in his surroundings for the first time in three days. Here and there stood various garlands, chains, and bulbs he had never dared to hope see in this little sanctum. His eyes fell on the little tree on the table and he cocked his head curiously.

Feeling his face flush and now wondering if maybe he hadn't already given away too much, Holmes flung himself into his own chair.

"When faced with starvation and an irate landlady, one must accept some things gracefully."

Watson smiled for the first time in days before his expression took on a curiously concerned look, "Mrs. Hudson is not visiting her sister this year?"

"It would seem there have been some undesirable marriages in recent years involving some of her cousins that will be attending the gathering."

To this Watson only nodded with some relief that made Holmes wonder for a moment. He had little time to consider this, however, as Watson's nod swiftly turned into a yawn he only barely managed to stifle behind his hand.

"You had best find your bed quickly before another patient finds you," Holmes commented.

"I am sorry, Holmes. It's just this blasted weather-"

Holmes cut his apology short with a laconic wave. "Nothing to apologize for, old man. You're a healer. This is when you are needed the most."

This change in terminology was not missed by the sleepy doctor. The ghost of that burned journal stirred. For a moment they shared a smile that was genuine and warmly comforting. Holmes saw his opportunity and leapt on it.

"Perhaps you should consider giving yourself a bit of a rest. I am given to understand there are other people in this city at least qualified to at least handle some of your cases."

Watson sighed deeply, looking more alive than he had in some time, but still weary. "I will."

Watson finally rose stiffly from his chair, still favoring his right leg somewhat, and bid Holmes a good night as he made the trek to his room.

~~o~o~o~

Holmes was all but bouncing with anticipation by the morning of December 23rd. It took every bit of his not inconsiderable acting skills to continue the routines as if nothing had changed. He arrived in the sitting room happily surprised to see a weary, but rested Dr. Watson sipping a cup of coffee at his writing desk. Since he had begun sharing some of his little talent, his desk had become a little crowded. It seemed he still wrote nothing more than occasional case notes and his own personal journals. Holmes frowned slightly, feeling the first niggling of doubts in the back of his mind.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson called brightly, spying his friend in the doorway.

"Morning, Watson. No patients this morning?"

Watson shook his head slightly with a small, sad smile. Carefully the closed and put away whatever he had been working on. Before he had a chance to answer verbally, Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to enter the sitting room with their breakfast tray. Spying Mr. Holmes, she scowled darkly.

"There is a telegram here for you, sir," she called, setting down the breakfast tray.

Holmes barely managed to bite back a rather vile oath at the ill timing as his eyes scanned the missive. Glancing at the clock, he sighed in resignation. There was no time to send a response before the client would arrive.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes replied, trying to reassure the woman. "I will be having a guest shortly."

She nodded, but said nothing further as she exited the sitting room.

"A new case?" Watson asked, his interest obviously sparking behind those green eyes.

Joining his friend at the breakfast table, Holmes nodded absently, already trying to consider ways of putting off or declining the case that would not further arouse Watson's suspicions. The two shared a quiet breakfast, lost in their own thoughts. On more than one occasion Watson caught Holmes glancing at him consideringly and wondered what was on the detective's keen mind. Holmes, not so lost in his own thoughts, caught Watson frowning and pushing food around his plate almost as much as eating and again wondered what was on his friend's mind. It had only just dawned on him that Watson was unsure and wanting to say something, when his analysis was interrupted by the ringing of the bell.

Glancing at the clock, he didn't even bother to stifle the invective that sprang to his lips as he dashed for his own room. The client was early! Grumbling to himself, Holmes readied himself to meet the woman that dared interrupt his own plans for the holiday. He had no intention of taking her case until afterward, and found it exceedingly inconvenient that she had chosen this morning of all days to appear. Stifling his irritation, he slipped is professional mask into place and entered the sitting room to find Watson had settled the young woman with a cup of tea on the settee.

Eyeing her closely, he took in all the details of her morning and status as he seated himself at his desk chair directly across from her. Her chestnut hair was coiled elegantly about her head. Her dress and hat were neatly placed and cut with elegance to match that of their owner. Though her clothes spoke of a comfortable lifestyle, the woman gave no airs of being wealthy. A practical mindset all but screamed at Holmes from the tidy appearance and lack of frills about her person. Everything she carried spoke of usefulness and a minimum of excesses typically displayed amongst those of her social status climbing the ladder of society. The lingering tan and roughened fingers told of a woman who had once known harder days and worked them with determination to do more than she was given.

After the initial introductions were passed around, Holmes noticed for the second time how uncertain the woman appeared. Nothing in his demeanor had affected this, obviously. Whatever it was that troubled the woman, she felt was important indeed. Reigning in his impatience, he set his mind to listen and absorb her story as he had taken in every nuance of her appearance.

"Please forgive my intrusion," she finally started, gathering her thoughts. "I know this is likely not a good time, but I feel immediate action may be needed and I could think of no other that would listen at a time like this. My own father would not even listen, though I know there is more than what we have seen."

"Pray, start at the beginning," Holmes counseled gently, bringing to bear all his meager social grace and charm.

It never ceased to amaze Watson how easily his friend could put a heart at ease with a few words or a subtle gesture or even the slightest change in inflection. He had often envied that ability as he himself dealt with some of the more hysterical clients. In regards to his own patients, even, he had sometimes wished for Holmes' calmingly commanding presence. Putting aside these thoughts, he propped the little red journal somewhat uncomfortably in his lap and focused on the lady's story at hand.

"My name is Ms. Abigail Ashdown. My father is the owner of many houses and flats throughout the city. He had always been a most kind and generous landlord, until the death of my mother threw him into despair. In these last five years, he has done little more than keep these properties standing. He had already lost most of his tenants, and therefore, his income. He does not seem to care anymore, and my brother and I fear he will not be long in joining our mother. My elder brother, Samuel Ashdown, has spent the last couple of years convincing Father to let us take over the care of these properties. Only in the last few months has he agreed."

The woman swallowed thickly as she forced the tears gathering in her eyes to dissipate. Her hands trembled slightly, but she pushed herself with admirable calm to continue her tale.

"Father does not believe I should have any part in this business, and has arranged for my part of the will already. Samuel has been overwhelmed in recent months making arrangements for the renovations of several of the houses and even relocating many tenants to do so. Without Father's consent, Samuel agreed to let me help in what ways I could without him knowing. It has been my part to speak with the tenants and convince them that relocating would not leave them without resources. We have both been pleasantly surprised at the success of this tactic.

"But there is one tenant that has refused even the most generous offer. The building is all but crumbling around her and I cannot see how her rooms could be any better than the rest of the building. My brother and I have even offered to take Mrs. Hill's last month's rent and use it to pay for her relocation to better accommodations at nearly the same cost. I have approached her numerous times and she does little more than peek curiously out the door. The first few encounters she struck me as being nothing more than a woman of middling age and very reclusive."

Ms. Ashdown visibly forced her trembling hands to steady once more. Holmes noted the distinct fear in the woman's features along with the genuine concern. She did not appear to him to be overreacting to what she felt was a very real fear. There was no note of insincerity to give away some falsehood in her demeanor. This was not appearance of a greedy property owner trying to deceive him for her own ends.

"My last two visits led me to believe there is something more. It was enough that I feared the building would collapse with the poor dear inside. Two weeks ago-"

The woman's tale was cut off in mid sentence as the furious ringing of the bell downstairs announced another visitor. Watson's face colored slightly as both he and Holmes quickly deduced the likely cause for such energetic ringing.

"Forgive my abruptness," Watson said as he rose from his seat seeking his medical bag. "Please excuse me."

"Of course, Doctor. It was a pleasure to meet you," she smiled softly in understanding.

Mixed relief at her understanding and mild embarrassment flew across Watson's face as he glanced toward Holmes helplessly. Holmes carefully schooled his mask to impassiveness as he waved off the doctor, silently cursing the intrusions that kept interrupting his plans.

"Please, continue," Holmes nudged gently. "This Mrs. Hill had declined some very generous offers. But what makes you think there is more to this than a reclusive woman?"

The subtle verbal challenge to the woman's instincts gave her the inspiration she needed to continue. "As I said, something has changed. Or, perhaps, it was always there and I could not see it. A week ago I visited her once more with a prospective residence for her. As usual, Mrs. Hill did not do more than crack the door open slightly to speak with me. But there was something of fear in her voice, terror in those eyes. I fear something or someone holds her to that place. She appeared as a woman on the edge of hysteria."

Holmes frowned slightly as the case seemed to be taking on a more sinister and intriguing light.

"I have never known the woman to have visitors, nor have any of her former neighbors. She has no children or husband that any have ever known. She moved in some ten years ago alone with some trunks and has hardly left.

"I last visited her yesterday, in an attempt to have her at least consider moving after the holidays. Mr. Holmes, I beg you to believe me when I say that fear was written plainly on her face. I cannot begin to describe the absolute terror that haunted her eyes! It is _real._ Something torments this woman inside those rooms. I could hear the sounds of muffled screaming from one of the rooms beyond. It sounded like a child!"

"And you did not take this to the police?"

"I did!" Ms. Ashdown cried, now wringing her trembling hands openly. "They sent a couple of constables. They practically forced their way in. She allowed them to look about, but found nothing. Their accusations toward me do not bear repeating. But I know what I saw and what I heard, Mr. Holmes. I'm begging you to help this poor woman."

Again Holmes took in every detail of the woman, seeking some sign of falsehood. He frowned darkly to himself as he could find none.

"Please, calm yourself Ms. Ashdown. I will look into the matter immediately. If it is as you say, it is well you came to me when you did," Holmes assured her in soothing tones.

The woman all but collapsed in visible relief right there on the settee. As she regained her composure and smiled brilliantly, Holmes found himself momentarily wishing for Watson's presence. He had always been the one to deal with their more...enthusiastic...female clients. Holmes himself felt a wave of relief as they rose to their feet and she did not actually throw her arms around him.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" she said, shaking his hand enthusiastically. "I just _know_ you can help her."

"Please, Ms. Ashdown,"Holmes started, holding back his irritation at such handling, "you must understand that I will only do what I can. If there is some sentimental reason that ties Mrs. Hill to those rooms, I cannot help you more than answering your questions."

All dignity and grace once again, Ms. Ashdown released Holmes' hand and nodded. "I understand, sir. And I will accept your decision, whatever it may be. But I know in my heart there is something more."

"Very well, then," Holmes agreed, struck by how very young this woman seemed to him now. "I will call upon you when I know more. I cannot promise to have results before the holiday."

"But you will look into it immediately?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes walked the young woman to the door as she placed her gloves back on her not so delicate hands. Already he had dismissed her from his mind as his thoughts worked toward solving this mystery in the quickest way possible.


	4. Chapter Three

_**A/N: Very Important! Please Read First!**_

_I have just re-read this chapter today on 9/12/12 to correct any minor mistakes that might have slipped past me in earlier posting. I'm putting out a call now to anyone reading this. As humiliating as this might be for me, something is screaming in the back of my head that I've read this somewhere else. I'm not kidding, it swear it felt new to me when I wrote it. But I was barely coherent when I wrote most of this part of the story leading up to the final two chapters or so._

If anyone out there has read this bit somewhere before, or something too similar, please please please tell me. I've read literally thousands of fics in this fandom and there's something in the back of my head telling me this is **not** original. I meant no offense, and will happily pull the entire Part III until it is reworked with something original. I will wish to die of humiliation if that is so, but I am not afraid to admit I made a mistake. 

_If I am freaking out over nothing, I thank you for taking the time to read this. If my gut instincts are correct, please PM or post in a review the name of the author and the story so I may issue a full apology. _

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Holmes had spent the better part of a fruitless day trying to find anything he could about the woman Ms. Ashdown had brought to this attention. Mrs. Hill simply did not exist beyond paying rent, having groceries delivered, and a once-per-year trip to the fabric store around the corner. She had apparently appeared out of nowhere some ten years ago to take up residence in what was already a dilapidated building. As Holmes prowled the building late into the evening, he wondered at the stench of rot and wet decay, even at this time of year. He could not find any reason for himself why a person would want to stay for anything other than sentimental attachment. The oozing walls, collapsing ceilings, and more gave the place the feel of something dead.

Closing his coat more tightly around him with a shudder, he exited the sagging front door. With a layer of gray slush coating everything in his sight, he frowned darkly at the overall feel of decay throughout the neighborhood. He had yet to find anything useful in regards to Mrs. Hill. And even his casual investigation into the Ashdown family had given him nothing to believe the daughter had been anything but sincere. Putting aside his frustration, he resumed his trek back toward Baker Street. He had the opening he needed to gain entrance to Mrs. Hill's domain without arousing suspicion. But he knew he would not be able to do anything until at least morning. With the hopes that he would be able to find what he needed and close the case on the morrow, he resigned himself to another wasted night.

Holmes was pleasantly surprised to see the doctor's coat and hat on the stand outside the sitting room. Putting aside his thoughts on the case, he entered to find Watson curled up asleep in his chair by the fire. His disappointment faded instantly at the sight of his friend's furrowed brow and pale features. Even in sleep, the man seemed weary beyond words and still troubled by something. Despite the uncomfortable position his friend was in, Holmes could not bring himself to wake the man. Catching sight of the afghan that covered him, Holmes knew Mrs. Hudson had felt the same.

Watson shifted slightly in his sleep as Holmes approached to take his own chair across from the fire. Holmes' soft murmurings of reassurance settled his friend without actually waking. The fact that Watson had slept through the rather vigorous opening of the sitting room door told the story of how deeply he was sleeping. Having trained himself during his time in the military to sleep lightly, Watson's skill in this had only improved with the night-time vigils he took on frequently. The slightest movement or sound from a patient had the effect of waking him fully and instantly. Holmes had noticed over the years that the only times Watson allowed himself to fall into a deep enough sleep not to be disturbed by such subtle things was in the safety of his own rooms here at Baker Street. Not for the first time, Holmes squashed a minute pang of guilt at how often the doctor had had occasion to practice that skill even here.

Holmes' musings were interrupted yet again by the ringing of the bell that had him cursing silently and violently as Watson shot awake. In an instant the man had taken in his surroundings, the late hour, and Holmes' presence. Without hesitation he rose from his chair headed toward the sitting room door.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," he threw over his shoulder as he grabbed his back and coat once more. "I was expecting this. I might not be back until tomorrow."

Watson did not even wait for the response he knew he would receive as he closed the sitting room door behind him. Moments later Holmes could hear him speaking with Mrs. Hudson in the foyer as he ducked out the door behind his expected caller. Shaking his head slowly, he knew he shouldn't be too terribly frustrated. Afterall, it was Watson's unwavering dedication and unfathomable compassion that had so greatly intrigued Holmes in those early days. These things and more had led to an admiration he had not expected. In turn, it had led to a friendship he could never have foreseen.

He just wished the man would give himself a rest! For all the doctors Holmes had come to know during the course of his career, none could claim the title of healer in his mind save for his Watson. Watson did not just address the issues of the body. The man had a quiet way about him that soothed the fears of the souls inside the person he considered to be his patient, and brought families together in times of crisis. His ready smile and gentle demeanor evoked trust in even the most skittish and wary of his patients.

Holmes was not sure how long he sat wrapped in his own thoughts wondering at the man he called friend. He could not imagine his friend any other way, and was glad to have him back. As the clock struck ten, Holmes startled himself out of his musings. His mind had once again wandered to many places and he had not spent much of it considering the time. If he was going to be in any shape to fulfill his plans for the next couple of days, he should at least attempt some sleep. His mind had no need to work further on what appeared to be a rather simple case at present. With so many other things that would need his attention, he hoped to devote no more than a few hours to the case and be done with it. If it really did involve more, it would just have to wait until after the holiday.

~o~o~o~

The next morning Holmes donned his costume and was already gathering his things to leave when a telegram arrived. Against all evidence to the contrary, it would seem Holmes' plans would work out afterall. The second telegram he read was from Watson. He said the crisis was passed, but he likely would not be home until early afternoon at the soonest. Restraining his glee at the combined good news, he set out to swiftly put an end to this case so he could turn his mind to what he felt were more important events.

The overwhelming scent of decay greeted Holmes once more as he carefully picked his way through the first floor and up several flights of stairs. The last room on the top floor was his destination. Its door appeared in no better condition than any of the others. He wondered briefly if knocking on it with any enthusiasm would simply knock it down and make his job that much easier. Sighing, he restrained himself as he shifted his mind to assume its own costume.

The woman that peeked around the edge of the door at him nearly made him forget his carefully scripted words. Those familiar soft brown eyes and gently rounded face made his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. For a moment, he had to resist the urge to call her Mrs. Hudson. She was so similar in appearance as to be mistaken for a sister or other close relative.

It wasn't until he took in what few details he could manage through that crack that made him realize this woman, though frighteningly similar, was not his landlady. She was younger, by some twenty years, at least. Though her hair was graying, the light brown was still in evidence. The most telling were the eyes. He found no traces of fear, but no recognition there, either. Something in those eyes did, however, spark his curiosity. There was something so very sad, yet familiar.

Quickly Holmes regained his mental equilibrium and smoothly launched into his prepared speech. He presented himself as the new owner of the only fabric shop the woman was known to attend. He explained that the previous owner had died rather suddenly, and the children had sold the business to him. He had been going through the list of regular clients, and wished to retain their custom. As she was not scheduled to come in for some months, he had chosen to make a special call today. Being the eve of Christmas, he decided he would give her a free bolt of cloth if she would accommodate him in his endeavors to learn more of what she preferred.

The woman opened the door most of the way during this speech, and Holmes was clearly able to see the poor state of the walls, floor, windows, and ceiling behind her. Beyond that, the place was well-kept and clean. He knew he'd hit his mark, though, when her simple hand-made dress revealed miles and miles of fanciful stitching and embroidery. She obviously possessed quite a skill that would not go amiss in any shop.

Complimenting her for her work, Holmes swiftly gained entrance to the front room where he found yet more examples of her work. These compliments pleased the woman visibly as she preened happily under his praise. Carefully turning the conversation back to his intended purpose, he questioned her for several minutes about the various fabrics and materials she preferred. Finally he requested further examples of her. Instead of showing him into various rooms, as he had hoped, she practically danced her way down the nearby hallway to get him what he requested.

Alone for the briefest of times, Holmes considered what he had learned thus far. Nothing he had seen had given any clues as to what could possibly be wrong. The stench of rot was not as prevalent here as it had been through the rest of the building, though there seemed to be no less damage than in other places. The rooms beyond this parlor were silent, giving no indication of other inhabitants. Though, based on the layout, it could easily accommodate three people, Mrs. Hill seemed completely alone. There was not even evidence of a pet. Thinking that Ms. Ashdown must have been mistaken, or he had successfully been deceived for perhaps the third time in his life by a woman, he waited patiently for her to return. He had already mentally washed his hands of the situation and was ready to move on to other things.

What he saw next evoked a horror in his mind and soul that left him numb. To the day he died, he could not recall how it was he had managed to summon the willpower to finish out his role that day. But he did. And then he fled that building on trembling legs.

~o~o~o~

Two hours later he watched as Mrs. Hill was dragged screaming from the building and into the waiting wagon. Constables, Yarders, a doctor, and some orderlies had all gathered. Though more than a few faces were familiar to him, he stood apart from the rest, watching quietly from the shadows. His part in this horror story was over, he knew. But he could not bring himself to walk away just yet. Instead of fixating on the horror being exposed before him, he found his mind wander back to the lines of little sheet-wrapped bodies compiling in the alley. An unknown to him Scotland Yard inspector by the name of Daniels had made the decision to keep the press vultures in the dark for the time being. They all knew how word would eventually spread, and how the press would follow the case with sycophantic glee.

The sheet-wrapped bodies stood out so starkly in the blackish mud...

While some part of Holmes greatly desired to find the families, it was very likely even they would not be found. It was a hopeless task, and one he hoped never to have to face. From here on, it was in the hands of the officials. Though he walked out of that alley with straight back and shoulders, he could not help but feel the weight that seemed to rest there. All the what-ifs imaginable raced through his mind as he made his way back to Baker Street.

He slumped wearily onto the settee upon finding the sitting room still empty without the presence of his Watson. For the first time in several months, Holmes found he needed his friend's presence to stave off the darkness that threatened to consume his mind and soul. But Watson was not there. He shoved off the settee and paced the sitting room frantically. Watson was off somewhere caring for people even more broken than his flatmate and friend. Much as Holmes wished to curse the man's absence at a time like this, he could not bring himself to blame Watson for fulfilling the demands of his calling.

All the more frustrated by this and the recent turn of events, Holmes found himself facing that Moroccan case once more sitting serenely on the mantle calling to him. Holmes found he was ready to do anything to banish that darkeness that beckoned. He had other plans. He and Watson needed this. Mrs. Hudson had already begun her part. There was no backing out now.

Growling ferociously to himself. Holmes disappeared with the case into his bedroom.


	5. Chapter Four

_**A/N: **The hardest part in the next few chapters is finding good places to create chapter breaks. After the last couple of rounds, I've officially given up trying to keep length or word count restrictions. Some will be as short as this, others may range as much as 5-10 pages. Sorry. _

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Holmes barely registered the arrival of his friend some hour or so later as he sat curled in his fireside chair puffing away at his pipe. Only the slightest flicker of his gray eyes revealed any change in attention. Holmes noted the fact that the doctor fairly radiated exhaustion, and a weariness of the heart that did not bode well for his recent patient. It took Watson about the same amount of time to settle into his chair and take his his friend's appearance. The glazed gray eyes staring into the fire combined with the constant stream of gray smoke told him all he really needed to know. But that had never stopped him before so...

"Alright, Holmes?" he prodded gently.

Watson was only slightly surprised at Holmes launching himself out of the chair. As those eyes sharpened and blazed in every direction about the room except on the speaker, Holmes began a frantic, jerky pacing about the room. Watson kept his face impassive and curious knowing Holmes would speak in his own time. But such a violent display of agitation had not been something he was expecting.

"In answer to your question: No, I'm not alright!" Holmes snapped finally, still pacing frantically around the room. "Such madness and obsession living right here in London. Four million people and nobody noticed!"

Watson sat quietly listening and pushing aside his own growing horror as Holmes detailed the results of the case. The story of this poor young woman being shown kindness and taken in as a governess to two young children was a tragic one. She had cared for the children as if they were her own. The family had not been overly wealthy, but comfortable enough to see to their needs. As the parents travelled often to Australia on business, she was frequently left as the sole caregiver for the children. The parents of this little boy and girl had decided their education better gained here than constantly travelling abroad, and were content to leave them in the care of such a wonderful governess. One day the young couple had left both children in the care this woman, then known as Ms. Henry, and taken a ship for Australia. Soon after their departure, both children had taken ill with a fever that swiftly killed them both.

Holmes missed Watson's barely concealed wince as this story tugged at something inside of him. Still frantically pacing like a caged, wild animal, Holmes barely registered the fact that Watson had again taken to staring into the fire wearing a hollow mask devoid of emotion. He continued his tale of how that same voyage disappeared at sea. They died, never knowing the fate of their beloved children. The will was carried out, however, and all their worldly possessions were left to the governess to care for them until they could claim their rights as adults. The day the will was carried out, Ms. Henry collected and then ceased to exist. There were no cries of foul play, and therefore, no reason to investigate the incident further or the missing governess.

She had reappeared in London as a Mrs. Hill. There her other personality had come to the fore. She swiftly found, bought, or enticed children of the same general age and appearance as that of those for which she had previously provided care. She would murder them in a variety of ways and then care for their corpses as if they were still living children. This had gone on unnoticed in that little building falling to ruin for a decade entirely unnoticed. As more and more of the rooms emptied of their tenants, it only became easier and easier for her other personality to hide the bodies of those who began to show visible signs of decay.

Casting aside his pipe, Holmes flung himself into his chair as he finished his tale. "How could someone have wound up so? How could no one have seen or heard anything before now? This..._This_ is the result of obsession!"

"It's called grief, Holmes," Watson chided gently, his face having become an unreadable mask even to his dear friend.

With a snort Holmes again turned away, back to his rapid, jerky pacing. "That's not grief. Grief is something you feel. You grieve for the loss, you put it away, you pack up their things, and then you move on!"

"Just like that?"

The softly spoken words in a voice that sounded faraway, almost lost, still earned him an automatic, expected response.

"Yes!" snapped Holmes again, finally turning back to face his companion.

The distant, closed off expression on his friend's face made his heart nearly stop. He'd seen many expressions cross Watson's features in the last several months. None so completely lost as this, though. Yet, there was a mixture of numerous other things he could not quite place. It was if the combination of feelings so obviously warring for supremacy just beneath the surface had left him with little real outward appearance. For the first time in a while, Holmes could not decipher what his friend was thinking.

"Alright, Watson?" he asked gently, slowly resuming his seat, scrutinizing every inch of his friend for the first time since he'd returned.

Watson gave a start of surprise as if only just coming back to the present before the mask of completely concealed emotions dropped back into place. With a sinking heart, Holmes watched as Watson smiled gently in assurance. But the shadow that had clouded his features before was back with a vengeance.

"Well, I'm sorry the case turned out so, Holmes," Watson started, in a carefully neutral voice.

Rising to his feet, he turned to gather his things as Holmes watched helplessly. Something in the back of his mind telling him he had just made a very grave mistake. Silent warning bells screamed in his mind, yet he could not figure out what it was. He knew he'd just missed something very important. His brow furrowing in confusion, he watched helplessly as Watson readied himself to leave again.

"I was just stopping by to see how the case was going. I needed to grab a couple of things from my room. I've got some errands to run," Watson told him, still not turning to face him as he headed for the sitting room door. "I shouldn't be gone too long."

"Would you like me to come along?" Holmes asked tentatively.

For a moment Watson hesitated with his had still on the doorknob before turning back to give Holmes a reassuring smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's just a few errands, Holmes."

With that Holmes was again left to his dark, and now confused thoughts as he listened to Watson's footsteps first going up to his room and then shortly out their front door. Going over to the sitting room windows, he watched his friend limp somewhat more pronouncedly than usual down the street. Settling back into his seat, he began to run every detail of their conversation back through his mind. A few moments later he was struck to the core of his soul as he realized what a colossal mistake he had just made. He groaned at his own callousness in realization.

Seconds later Holmes was out the door heading the same direction he knew his dear friend to be headed.

~o~o~o~

Less than an hour later, Holmes had arrived at the cemetery gates. For a moment he hesitated, not sure if he would even be welcome. Recalling once more how coldly callous he must have seemed to his dear friend earlier, it was no wonder Watson had declined his company. Thinking back on it, he wondered that his friend had not said more. Heaving a sigh, he quietly closed the squeaking gate behind him. In the near absolute silence of the heavy fluffy snowfall, it almost felt like entering another world. He allowed his feet to take him their own way as if on auto-pilot. They knew where he was headed, even if his mind still shied away from it.

As expected, he found his dear Watson standing before three, recently snow-cleared graves. Even as the dim outline of his standing friend became more defined, Holmes froze in place as he watched Watson collapse to his knees right there in the snow. His heart wrenched painfully as his friend began to sob silently. His entire body shook with the force of those heartbroken sobs as he buried his face in his hands.

Holmes had spent his entire life avoiding emotional entanglements and had never been very comfortable around others in displays of open emotion. However, the sight of his beloved friend and long-time companion reduced to this was more than he could endure. His own eyes burned as he silently approached the all but broken man kneeling before him. Not sure what kind of reception he would receive—though he knew what he deserved—he gently laid a comforting hand on Watson's good shoulder. Rather than starting as Holmes had expected, Watson seemed to curl further in on himself as his sobs continued. Not sure what more he could do, Holmes knelt beside his friend and wrapped an arm around the man's shaking shoulders.

Moments later, Watson began to force the tide of emotion back. Holmes remained silent, but waited patiently still holding onto his friend as he composed himself once more. His heart gave a little jerk as he realized how carefully Watson was avoiding facing him. Not willing to break the silence, Holmes watched his friend's pale, drawn face as he gazed upon the three graves in front of them.

"You shouldn't have come," Watson finally said, the slight burr in his timbered voice even more pronounced as it was thickened by so many as yet unshed tears.

Again Holmes felt his heart twist painfully, but knowing he deserved this. "You want me to leave?"

To this Watson simply shook his head, slightly, never taking his eyes off those three marble stones. "No, I didn't mean it that way. I just know how you feel about such things, and the case this morning..."

Again Holmes was touched beyond words at how his friend ever took into account others before himself. Squeezing his friend's shoulders slightly, Holmes replied, "My dear Watson. I am a poor friend, indeed, if I cannot at least offer you something of comfort at a time like this."

Touched himself at this open display of warmth from his dear friend, Watson only nodded silently. Moments later he visibly pulled himself together. "Even so, I'm sorry. I should have known-"

"No apologies, Watson," Holmes interrupted sincerely. "It is I who should apologize, I should have thought before I spoke earlier. That was unforgivably callous."

Struggling to his feet with Holmes' assistance, Watson took up his walking stick once more shaking his head. Before he had a chance to speak, Holmes took in his friend's now emotionally _and_ physically exhausted appearance and made a decision.

"We need to get you home. Come, we can talk more in the warmth with some of Mrs. Hudson's excellent tea," Holmes insisted.

Silently, wearily, Watson obeyed. Wrapped in their own thoughts, neither spoke as they quietly exited the cemetery and made their way back toward Baker Street. By the time they managed to get a cab, Watson's limp was enough that Holmes quietly supported him back up to their sitting room. Mrs. Hudson said not a word as she relieved them of their coats and hats. They smiled gratefully, as she gave Watson a comforting pat on the arm. No words were needed for her to deduce where they had recently been or why. She was glad to see Holmes putting aside his own feelings to once more focus on the friend that had so long and dearly missed and needed him.


	6. Chapter Five

_**A/N: **Okay, this part I have been chasing around my head over and over and over and...I finally just had to take a deep breath, dive in, and hope for the best. Please somebody let me know if this works, or if I need to scrap it and approach from another direction. Yes, much of it is redundant, in a way. But it is more meant to be revealing of their new start on their friendship and how far it has taken them. _

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The two friends maintained their silence until after Mrs. Hudson had once more retreated downstairs to her relentless holiday baking. After seeing Watson warmly ensconced in his chair by the freshly stoked fire, Holmes poured them each a cup of tea with a generous amount of brandy in each. Having had time to analyze the day's events, Holmes knew Watson was about to open up. He had not planned for this to happen on today, of all days. Nor would he have wished it to happen in such a manner. But he would not abandon his friend's need to bring this out into the open. He only wished Watson had done so sooner. That emotional breakdown in the cemetery had been but a minute sign of the suffering his friend carried with him in silence all this time. Again he marveled at the incredible inner strength the man possessed so casually.

"Better?" Holmes asked gently, drawing his friend's gaze away from the fire and out of his sad thoughts.

Watson nodded and cleared his throat as if to speak, the first signs of discomfort making themselves visible.

"I owe you an apology, Watson," Holmes cut him off before he could speak. "I did not consider your own feelings when I spoke. And, I should have known today would be a day you would want to visit them. I should have seen it coming, and I failed to-"

"No, it's alright, Holmes," Watson interrupted uncharacteristically. "Really, it is. It's not what you think. I didn't—I mean—I wasn't...I hadn't intended to..."

Holmes watched curiously as a myriad emotions flitted across Watson's face before he wiped it with his hand as if to wipe away the chaos of his thoughts. Finally he sighed and visibly ordered his thoughts. His brow furrowed slightly as his expression settled on one of sadness. Keeping his eyes focused only on the cup now shaking ever so slightly in his grasp, he found the words he was trying to speak and began. Holmes kept his expression carefully encouraging and open as he waited.

"What you said about grieving, struck truer than you know. You were right in that I had planned to visit them today; and that I was going to ask you if you wanted to join me. I had not, however, planned on it being such an...overwhelming...affair. Not at first, anyway. But what you said struck me. And then I realized how completely I had put it away inside me.

"I know I'm not explaining this very well, and I apologize."

Watson's voice was distant, lost and made Holmes wish it would stop, but he didn't dare interrupt. He knew his friend needed this, but it pained him more than he could ever have imagined to see his kind-hearted friend so openly wounded and suffering.

"After you explained your case, I had almost decided to put it off until tomorrow. But I knew how you felt about emotional displays and with the state you were already in, I didn't think you needed that right now. I had thought that if, perhaps, I could deal with some of it myself, maybe we could go back tomorrow. So, please understand, it was not that I didn't want you with me."

Watson quickly downed the rest of his tea and Holmes refilled it with straight brandy this time. Nodding his thanks, Watson continued softly.

"When the twins were born, it was the happiest day of our lives." For a moment, Watson smiled, his eyes far away from today's events. "It was Mary who insisted we name a boy Sherlock, by the way. I hope you understand. I wasn't sure if I was really ready, and wanted it to be his middle name. She finally won that argument when she pointed out that you were the reason we met. And, of course, we agreed on Elizabeth for Mary's grandmother if we were to have a girl. We were both overjoyed to learn it was twins. But it was difficult for Mary. She almost didn't survive, and there was no chance she would ever have children again."

Holmes knew all this from the one and only time he had invaded the sacred privacy of Watson's journal. He did not have the heart to stop Watson, though, as he rambled almost frantically trying to get the story out of himself.

"But she did survive, and thrived even. I remember nothing of my practice or other goings on in those early days. Elizabeth and Sherlock occupied our every waking moment. I recall Lestrade having made an appearance a few times."

For a moment Watson trailed off again, before coming back to his tale. Again Holmes refrained from even making a single movement that would interrupt his friend's attention.

"It was three months before I realized something was wrong with Elizabeth," the self-loathing and disappointment clear in Watson's voice. "Her lungs were underdeveloped. I sought out specialists, and there was considerable question as to her survival even then. She would always be weak, but Sherlock never let her sit idle for long."

A brief smile once more crossed his features, though he still could not meet his friend's eyes.

"Almost right away he was moving around, wanting to touch and inspect everything for himself. He was a ceaseless bundle of energy. And he was always helping Elizabeth to get around and join him, whenever he couldn't bring it back to her."

His brow furrowed again sadly.

"I knew what would happen to Elizabeth if we stayed in London. So I found a suitable place and begun the process to take over from a retiring doctor that summer. I was so excited at my incredible luck that I rushed home to tell Mary and the kids right away."

Watson's next breath trembled slightly, though his red-rimmed eyes remained free of tears. "But it was already too late. I wanted to check in on the children before I woke Mary. Sherlock was so quiet, but I could tell he was awake..."

Watson closed his eyes and breathed for a moment as if holding back tears. Finally he shook his head and gathered himself visibly once more. Had he looked up, he would have seen the glinting of tears in the eyes of his friend watching him so intently he forgot himself. Holmes' own expression of heartbreaking grief for his suffering friend had completely replaced the mask of distance and indifference.

"Mary and I took the loss hard, but it was far harder on Sherlock. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself. Mary and I had each other and Sherlock to focus on. We mourned, and felt her absence keenly. But it was for Sherlock that we began to recover. By autumn we had managed bring him back to something of his old, curious self. I think we spent more time in the parks than we did at home in those months.

"Autumn lasted longer that usual that year. And when winter came it was ice storm after ice storm. A wave of seasonal illnesses quickly became a wave of the worst viral pneumonia I have ever seen. I made certain Mary understood it was best to keep herself and Sherlock indoors and, for the most part, away from me. I couldn't risk exposing them, so I took up residence in my consulting rooms. I thought little of it when I noticed the housekeeper and maid absent shortly after. I was so fully occupied with my patients, I didn't realize until it was almost too late that both of them were sick."

Here he paused again, as if reliving those horrible days in his mind all over again. He downed the cup of brandy that he had all but forgotten in his hands. Before Holmes realized what he was doing, Watson had heaved himself out of his chair and poured himself a fresh cup. The time taken in this little diverting task had seemed to have given Watson the strength he needed. Holmes, too, had managed to regain some measure of control over his emotions. Yet remained silent, waiting for his friend to continue once more. At least now, from time to time, Watson would glance toward Holmes; still not meeting his eyes.

"Even with the help of a temporary maid, I was pressed to keep up with caring for both of them. The fevers were too much. I did all I could to stave off the pneumonia I knew would soon follow. It was the fever that took Sherlock. I was holding him by Mary's bedside as she was delirious at that point. I clearly remember every moment of that night, and it shames me still. But I had to put aside my grief for Sherlock to focus on Mary. The pneumonia raged inside of her. She was weakened to a point even I did not think she would survive. And I knew telling her of Sherlock would mean losing her to the pneumonia.

"It wasn't until she recovered enough to ask after him that I finally told her. I wished to spare her, but I could not. Though she was recovering physically, the loss devastated her so much... She...she slipped away. I tried to hold on to her. But it was too much. All she'd ever wanted was a family. And knowing she could never have children...and our own..."

Watson's shaking hand rose to squeeze the eyes that had once again filled with tears. Unable to hold back anymore, Holmes leant forward out of his chair to kneel before his friend. In a display of uncharacteristic tenderness, he placed his hands on his friend's trembling shoulders and if to steady them. Those once strong shoulders now so painfully thin even after all these months, began to shake once more. Through this contact, he could feel the battle for control raging inside his friend. Silently Holmes willed his strength to Watson as he refused to let go. The bout lasted only moments, but it was enough for Holmes to once again confront the terrible weight of grief under which his friend had suffered in silence for so long.

As Watson pulled away, somewhat more composed; the embarrassment of such a loss of control painted itself on his face clearly. Holmes patted his knee comfortingly as he returned to his own fireside chair. No apologies were issued and none were expected as Holmes emptied the cup of tea and once more filled it with brandy for his friend.

"It was Christmas Eve, the day after what should have been our children's second birthday. I had been so focused on Mary, that I don't even remember there being a holiday. There seemed nothing left. And, at that point, there seemed no point in mourning. I did not expect to be around long enough."

This statement made Holmes twitch slightly as he started. He had not expected quite so open an admission from Watson. Forgetting the match he had just used to light his pipe, he almost didn't feel the burn as he willed Watson's eyes to meet his own. The dark, emptiness he saw in those green eyes was so bereft of the life and luster he had known his friend possessed even after his experiences in Maiwand that the pain of the burning match on his fingertips was nothing compared to what he felt in his soul. The cold terror of how close he had come to truly losing his friend in a way worse than death was almost too much to comprehend. For his part, Watson only nodded sadly as he realized his friend had understood the depth of that statement.

A moment later those eyes sparkled in amusement as Holmes quickly dropped the match with a muttered curse. As if the darkness had once again given way to sunlight, Watson's eyes crinkled gently around the corners as his lips curved up gently in a sad smile. His thoughts once more diverted from the agony he had only moments ago been forced to confront, he continued as Holmes returned his attention.

"You don't give Lestrade enough credit, you know. And I'm well aware the two of you are still at odds. But it is he you have to thank for my sitting here right now. No, nothing so drastic as that, Holmes," Watson was quick to assure him, as he saw his friend frown and start to say something.

"It was never like that. I won't say the thought didn't cross my mind, but never with any force.

"But Lestrade had begun making regular appearances after Elizabeth's funeral. He would appear frequently, and often with no more purpose than to visit. From time to time he had attempted to gain my interest in certain of his cases, but without any real enthusiasm. He knew I was too focused on Mary and Sherlock. I think it was his way of attempting to draw me into a closer friendship, as if he sensed my need for such. It shames me to think of how I rebuffed him. But I'd already lost one dear friend, I was not ready to form any kind of bond with another, despite the circumstances that followed. And, after Mary's funeral, it seemed all the more so.

"My practice of regular patients had declined significantly due to my prolonged absence. And...my own feelings on the subject of my calling were less than pleasant. I felt I had failed, and therefore had no right to continue to practice medicine. When I could not even save the lives of my own wife and children, what right did I have to claim the title of doctor?"

Again Watson waved off Holmes' unspoken statement before he had a chance to voice it. "I know, Holmes. I know. I never said it was rational. It was just how I felt. You, of all people, should understand the irrationality of feelings."

Though that statement could have stung deeply, especially given their current situation, Holmes lips quirked a smile at the teasing glint in his friend's eyes. Nodding to the doctor, he motioned for him to continue.

"When I finally began turning away patients again, Lestrade ensured I had plenty to keep me busy. I'm not sure he knew that I caught on to how many of them were Yarders' and constables' families. He, then, began engaging me as a police surgeon with earnest. He kept me involved in cases even he had no difficulty solving.

"It was all to keep me busy. I really don't know how long the man intended to keep it up, but there is no denying that it worked. I was kept busy enough that the months just sort of slipped past. And, so, I was still healthy enough to appreciate your return. As I said, it was never an intentional decision on my part. But there seemed little point in eating or sleeping or any number of other activities without someone to prod me into it. Of course, Lestrade never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was channeling your spirit every time he took notice."

Even Holmes had to grin openly at this shot as he snorted in amusement. He could just see the little inspector saying something like that.

"So, I hope you can understand. What I mean is, I was not excluding you today. I just knew it was not going to be pleasant and I did not wish you further discomfort. You seemed to have had enough for one day. More than enough, I'd say."

To this Holmes frowned for a brief moment, before again putting aside his own emotional outbursts from this morning. "Nevertheless, I am sorry, Watson. Whether you consider the results of my statements to be positive is entirely up to you. And I_ do _understand. You are always putting the needs and comfort of others before your own. But _you_ need to understand also, that I am here and I vowed I would never abandon you again. Not in this or anything else."

"Don't do that," Watson replied sharply.

Holmes' eyebrows shot up in surprised confusion as he met Watson's obviously angry glare.

"Lestrade can feel how he wants about your deception. But I refuse to sit here and let you continue to punish yourself that way. I don't hold it against you, and I never will. I thoroughly understand you were trying to protect me and Mary when you disappeared. I understand your continuation of that deception and I am only thankful you came back.

"I will not sit here and let you continue to wallow in guilt over it. There is nothing to feel guilty about, Holmes. Yes, there were times I desperately wished you had been there. I would have loved to see the look on your face as we named you godfather to our children. But I have stood by and watched that guilt eating away at you for far too long."

Through the course of this vehement speech, Holmes had been warmed both by the statements themselves as well as the sincerity of his dear friend, once more. Smiling slightly, he nodded to himself.

"Very well, then," Holmes acquiesced. "I will agree to this on the condition that you agree to the same."

Now it was Watson's turn to look surprised. The expression only lasted a moment. No further comment was needed from Holmes as he knew he'd hit his mark.

"You're right, of course," Watson confirmed. "I do still feel it sometimes. And, there were times I almost wanted to abandon the calling of my profession as a result. But if it will put your mind at ease and end this meaninglessness, then I agree."

"Good, that is settled, then," Holmes stated with sincere finality. "And I dearly hope that now you can also begin to tell me more. I've understood your reluctance to this point; but I would very much like to hear more of your family when you are ready. And, from now on, do not even let it cross your mind that you must go alone, unless you chose to do so for your own reasons."

This time Watson's smile was one of genuine warmth and gratitude. "Thank you, Holmes."

Setting aside his pipe, Holmes swiftly rose to his feet as he glanced out the darkened windows. "Now, I believe it is time enough to reveal to you my plans for our evening."

The mischievous glint in Holmes' blue eyes aroused Watson's curiosity. For a moment he wondered if his actions of the day had somehow interfered. Of course, he had had no idea Holmes had anything planned beyond a quiet night spent in front of the fire following another one of Mrs. Hudson's splendid holiday meals. Glancing at his own watch, he only just realized how late it was and that dinner time had already come and gone. Smiling warmly and mysteriously once more, Holmes turned headed for the sitting room door.

"You should go and refresh yourself, Watson. We have a busy night ahead of us, and I think you'll find it far more fulfilling than our usual routine of past Christmases."


	7. Chapter Six

_**A/N: **Shout out to all my reviewers across all three parts of this collection thus far. I cannot thank you enough for your support and encouragement! It has helped motivate me far more than I expected._

_This chapter is dedicated to **Lemon Zinger**, whose feedback was essential in maintaining the existence of this little piece. Which, of course, launched me into the SH fandom writing in general. I would have likely deleted it and moved on without her. Thank you so very much for the encouragement!_

**_Warnings! _**

_**1) **Ridiculously long chapter. I could not, for the life of me, find a place to break. So I'm leaving this part whole, and hope it counts as a double._

_**2) **OOC...just in case. For anyone who didn't read my earlier notes, my position is that what do we really know about Holmes' attitude toward Christmas beyond what little we saw in BLUE? And, in Grenada he was even caught decorating his chemistry set in "Cardboard Box". So, yes, this may be OOC for some people's vision of Holmes, but I'm willing to take the chance here._

* * *

**Chapter Six**

His friend's teasing and happy countenance was infectious. Not even bothering to question him, Watson rose from his chair to head for his room more out of excited anticipation than simple curiosity. Though he was too far away to hear, he saw a brief exchange between Holmes and Mrs. Hudson before he disappeared into his room. Minutes later he descended the stairs as Holmes exited his own room. He disappeared briefly into the sitting room to return with his somewhat battered violin case in hand. However, the sight of Mrs. Hudson in the foyer depositing some rather large boxes quickly distracted him. As he headed down the stairs to help her, she smiled briefly in thanks before retreating once more to the kitchen.

"Excellent!" Holmes cried, bounding down the stairs happily. "If you would be so kind as to help me load these into the cart, Watson."

He caught sight of Mrs. Hudson returning with an enormous sack that all but dwarfed the poor woman as Holmes opened the door. Quickly he moved to relieve the woman of her burden as he smiled affectionately. As Watson carefully hefted a couple of the suspiciously warm boxes out the door and toward the waiting cart just outside, he nearly stumbled in surprise as he heard Holmes speak behind him.

"What did I ever do to deserve you, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked warmly.

Glancing back, Watson caught Mrs. Hudson just drawing back from what he knew had been a most uncharacteristic display of affection from his friend for the second time that day. In return Mrs. Hudson gave a rather unladylike snort of amused surprise at the question before giving a verbal reply that had Holmes laughing openly.

"You tried to blow up my sitting room, shot holes in the walls, wailed on that violin of yours at all hours of the day and night, and made yourself quiet possibly the worst tenant a woman could have ever asked!"

Even though the words had been spoken with undeniable affection as if from a mother to a child, Watson found himself choking back gales of laughter as he hefted the first round of boxes onto the cart. Before long the cart was loaded with the bulging sack and boxes of food stuff that almost painfully reminded Watson he had yet to remember to eat today. Holmes quickly insisted that Watson take the remaining seat beside the cart-driver as he curled up in between the boxes in the back to keep them stable. Within minutes they were making surprisingly quiet progress down Baker Street in the ever-deepening layer of snow.

Watson was surprised when Holmes called a halt only a few blocks away at the entrance to what seemed just another one of many nearby alleys. Before he had a chance to question his friend, however, Holmes was quickly unloading boxes and telling the driver to wait a few minutes. Watson followed suit by quickly grabbing a stack of boxes of his own and catching up to him before the swiftly falling snow swallowed him up in the shadows of the alley. At the end of the alley as they rounded the rear corner of the building, Holmes motioned Watson to move as silently and swiftly as possible.

As they crept quietly further into this open space behind several buildings, Watson began to realize that this was some sort of nearly hidden plaza. However, he could now see what appeared to be a small house of mixed materials that had been cobbled together which now occupied most of the open space. Though less than stable, it appeared to be all of one unit stretching in every direction. Only when they were close enough to hear the muffled voices from within was he able to make out the faintest glints of light sneaking out between the cracks. Holmes smile widened as he nodded quickly and silently at the sight of Watson's understanding.

Setting the boxes down with no more noise than a cat, the two of them turned back toward the plaza entrance. It wasn't until they were well down the alley once more that Watson finally spoke.

"So _that's_ where they've been staying!" he exclaimed quietly in wonder. "All these years, I had no idea."

"So, I take it you've guessed the purpose for this night's outing?"

"Yes, and I only wish you had warned me so I could have brought my medical bag. I'm sure there are some of them that could use a little tending," he replied quietly as they once again headed down the alley with more boxes.

"You mean the one sitting behind the driver's seat?" Holmes asked casually.

The chuckle he received in response was enough. A few more rounds brought the last of the boxes to their destination. And it was a matter of moments for Holmes to heft the sack onto his back leaving Watson to carry the violin case and medical bag. Rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation, Holmes threw Watson a mischievous smile as he smartly rapped on the makeshift door made of what he could only guess to have been a boat hull at one time. Moments later the door swung inward slightly as a familiar, if older, face peered cautiously around the edges.

"Mr. Holmes!" Jacob exclaimed in surprise. "What...I mean...how did you..."

"If you would be so kind as to invite us in, Master Jacob, I would be obliged to answer all your questions in due course," Holmes stated in a voice that not only carried is usual cool confidence, but conveyed a sternness the Irregular knew did not likely bode well for him.

Jacob recovered himself quickly and was visibly abashed. Nodding to himself, he stepped back and swept his arm and the door inward. "Welcome to our headquarters, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

To this Holmes nodded in satisfaction, as if a teacher to a pupil; though he never lost the air of stern authority. As he turned away to take up the bulging sack once more, he shot Watson a grin and a wink. As he followed Holmes through the door, the sight that met his eyes was one he would never forget. Though he had had no idea what to expect, he was struck speechless by the place. From one end to the other, beds cobbled together from miscellaneous parts of so many discarded items lined the walls. The "floor" was lined entirely with scraps of cloth and pieces of old rugs. Lamps, candles, and semi-portable stoves lined the walls between the beds, offering what warmth they could. Nearly three dozen children sat quietly upon their various make-shift beds wrapped in the rather sorry remains of countless blankets.

Watson's heart twisted painfully for just a moment as so many fearful and expectant faces watched their moves from behind eyes ranging in age from toddlers to almost adults. But, to his surprise, none of them were dirty. Some appeared tired and careworn, most were clothed or covered in scraps that could barely be called suitable; yet none of them appeared either starving or uncared for. For all its outward appearance of being nothing more than a collapsing ramshackle on the outside, the inside of this little building had all the appearances of a makeshift orphanage.

He had only a moment to take all this in, before Holmes spoke again drawing his attention away momentarily.

"I need a few of your older lads to help, Master Jacob. There are several boxes outside growing cold."

Jacob eyebrows raised minutely, but he never hesitated in picking out a few unfamiliar faces to help out. It wasn't until they had returned with all the boxes stacked in neat piles at the end of the building that appeared to be an open, common area that Watson realized how familiar these faces really were. Some had grown older in the years since he'd last seen them. Others had simply lost the expected layers of dirt and grime one always expects of homeless children. Even as he was recovering from this little added surprise, he—like every other face in the somewhat crowded house—returned his attention to the masterfully commanding presence of his friend.

"Now, Jacob, I would like you to see to the distribution of the food, the rest we will discuss afterward," Holmes stated, never dropping the authoritative demeanor.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," Jacob started in his most obviously trained formal tone of voice, as if addressing an equal. "As our employer, we appreciate what you do to give us work. However, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, you must know we will not accept payment for services not rendered."

There was no missing the proud stance Jacob had adopted while confronting Holmes. And it was in no way diminished by his considerably shorter stature or age. For a moment he and Holmes faced off silently, neither giving an inch. A moment later Holmes gave a very ungentlemanly snort as he broke the eye contact.

"What makes you think that as an employer I would go through all this trouble?"

When Jacob pridefully refused to back down, continuing to glare silently, Holmes finally sighed as if he were the most put-upon man in the entire city.

"Oh very well, I admit, it was not as your employer I have come calling. Nor did I come as someone likely to be mistaken for Santa Clause. You have Mrs. Hudson to thank for this little gift. And, if you do not accept, I cannot go home tonight and face her without risking the wrath of that formidable woman," Holmes explained as Watson struggled to keep a straight face.

Knowing this for the less than half-truth that it was, Watson carefully kept his expression sincerely neutral as Jacob glanced to him for confirmation.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly go calling you a Scrooge or anything, Mr. Holmes," Jacob finally said. "But you cannot deny it is rather unexpected. However, in light of your plight, we will of course do our part to assist."

This last was said with a knowingly amused glint in his eyes. Watson very nearly doubled-over laughing outright as Holmes sighed once more with the most theatrically profound relief. Apparently that was enough to satisfy the wills and pride of both parties, as things then began to descend into barely controlled chaos. Jacob shouted for everyone to line up neatly and assigned the three eldest boys to assist in unboxing the most incredible amount of holiday food Watson had ever seen. Both Holmes and Watson took a moment to marvel at why it was Jacob was the Irregular's declared leader. Without a doubt, he was a masterful leader and quick to take control over the situation. And neither Holmes nor Watson could deny that experience with handling a large number of seemingly undisciplined children was a test of leadership any but the strictest commander would likely fail.

As the food was revealed and distributed to the wonderment, awe, and unconcealed joy of all present, Watson followed Holmes' lead as they moved to a quiet corner to take a seat on a nearly unrecognizable object that had presumably once been a sofa. Both of them were lost for several minutes with warm, happy smiles of their own as they watched the unmatched joy and squeals of wonder at all the various types of foods Mrs. Hudson had lovingly prepared. It was some minutes before Jacob again appeared out of the crowd with two, fully loaded trays of food. He approached imperiously making clear with his expression that he would brook no argument in the matter. Seeing Holmes open his mouth to decline, Jacob beat him to it.

"As I am given to understand, Mr. Holmes, gentlemen don _not_ insult their hosts by refusing hospitality," Jacob stated, beautifully silencing the detective in a perfectly delivered statement.

To this Watson laughed openly. He had long known Holmes had taught some of the older irregulars the manners and overall education of higher society in the hopes that one day they would grow into men he would continue to watch over with pride. These children he had unofficially adopted had not only taken to Holmes' teachings, but had done so with fervor and passed it on to the younger. It had all started with Wiggins so many years ago. And, the two men had watched as each of those children did just as they had hoped.

"You taught them well, Holmes," Watson commented, as he thanked their host, once again reminded by his empty stomach it had been far too long since his last meal.

With a fond smile and gracious nod, Holmes accepted his food as well. As the last of the children were slowly retreating to various seats throughout the structure, Watson spied just how much food there was leftover and was glad to know they would not go hungry on Christmas Day. He kept watch out of the corner of his eyes as all the children, even the youngest ate heartily; for once not having to wonder from where tomorrow's meal would come. His heart warmed by this sight, he continued his covert inspection looking for signs where he knew he would later be needed. Overall, the children appeared remarkably healthy. Few showed signs of a bruise or other possible injury, and only a couple he considered might be slightly ill.

Beside him Holmes dug into his own food with gusto equal to that of his companion. Watson couldn't help but note the continued glances Holmes himself shot around the room as he took in the large number of children. Each and every glance was filled with a combination of fondness, warmth, and pride Watson could only sum up as fatherly. He was not ignorant of Holmes' long-standing feelings towards the Baker Street Irregulars, though he had never expected it to be displayed quite so openly. Making every effort to stick to his teachings, Jacob helped to initiate and maintain numerous pleasant conversations throughout their meal. It was through this casual conversation that Holmes revealed the bulging sack to be a wide variety of clothing and other articles Mrs. Hudson had gathered through her various charity work in the last couple of years. This Jacob accepted with unfeigned gratitude.

Eventually they had all eaten their fill and the boxes were repacked, and condensed as the remainder was shifted about and moved out of the way for tomorrow. The enormous amount of dishes were swiftly removed to what had once been a copper bathing tub in the far back of the shelter. There they spotted an old pump that must have once been connected to a crumbled old stone fountain that now served as a communal lavatory. It was the work of mere minutes to accomplish the cleaning and re-organizing of the entire shelter to Jacob's approval. Even as Jacob was overseeing this task, Holmes began to ready his violin. Soon the children abandoned their beds to gather around the communal living area, their eyes fixed on Holmes.

"So, how many of you were planning to venture out in hopes of a little extra coin tomorrow?" Holmes asked, as Watson moved a little off to the side taking his medical bag with him.

"Caroling, Mr. Holmes?" the familiar voice of Sam spoke up from somewhere in the crowd. "I thought you didn't go in for that sort of nonsense."

"Rightly so," Holmes agreed, again scraping his bow across the strings to produce a fearful wail. "Especially when it sounds something like that. Therefore, if you insists on such holiday foolishness, I will, of course, be obliged to at least teach you how to do so properly."

To this, several of the elder children snickered. None of them labored under the illusion of a mastery of any form of musical talent. However, all appeared eager to learn. While all of the eldest had gathered around and begun to situate themselves more comfortably, a few had hung back to keep up with the youngest. As he had suspected, Watson now spied more closely that at least five of the children present were under the ages of five. Even as recent as a few hours ago, this fact would have pulled the strings of his heart painfully. Now seeing how well they were being cared for by the older of the motley group of children, left him no doubts they were in as good of hands as any he could conceive on his own.

Not wanting to interrupt Holmes beginning lessons of the more popular Christmas carols, Watson quietly motioned for one of the nearby caretakers to bring her charge over to him in the light a small distance away. He had carefully positioned some lamps and candles around a very short stool in between the rows of beds in the center to make himself more accessible and give him some light in which to work. The caretaker herself could not have been more than twelve by the looks of her, though it was hard to tell under all the layers of clothing. The child she brought was a giggling, pudgy little boy wrapped in numerous layers of cloth that served as blankets. Though he appeared old enough to be walking, she seemed to take great care to keep his legs and lower body covered as she approached with some trepidation.

"My name is Dr. Watson," he introduced himself gently, bringing to bear all his accumulated experience with the more shy children. "And what is your name, young lady?"

"Sarah," she replied almost too softly to hear as she gently rocked the boy.

"That is a beautiful name, Sarah," he smiled sincerely. "And who might this be?"

"Tommy."

"He seems quite energetic," Watson observed. "Would you mind helping me for a bit? You look like you know about everyone here, you have sharp eyes."

"I need to be taking care of Tommy," she replied seriously, showing no signs of wavering.

"But that won't be a problem," Watson returned, with a knowing smile. "I would like to take a look at him and maybe you can help answer some of my questions."

For a moment she appeared reluctant to release the small boy as he squirmed in her arms. But, after eying Watson closely, she asked, "Can you help him?"

"I will certainly do my best," Watson stated, with equal solemnity.

Finally she approached and began to hand the boy over to Watson with tender care as she explained. "His parents were killed in a cab accident a few months ago. His stroller was turned over and his legs were hurt. When they said he wasn't likely to live and no one wanted him, Evan watched out for him. When he was well enough, he was brought here."

During this Watson had propped the boy carefully in the crook of one arm while he began unwrapping the coverings with the other. By the time she finished speaking, he knew what he would find. Much as it hurt to see it, he knew this little boy was beyond his ability to heal. However, freed of his cumbersome wrappings, Tommy burbled and laughed happily as he began kicking. From the knees down his legs were a twisted and broken ruin. But in his own eyes, Tommy saw nothing wrong that would keep him from flailing away in momentary freedom with unadulterated joy.

Holmes, now working his way through the beginnings of _Silent Night_ patiently, had watched Watson's opening moves carefully. He knew this was likely to be at least somewhat painful for his friend, especially after what he had endured only hours ago. But he also knew his friend's ability to rise far above that of a simple physician to that of a true healer. The man had always possessed an ability to win over anyone he encountered, and children most especially. He never doubted his friend's first moves would be toward the youngest of the children hidden away here. Watching out of the corner of his eyes, he could not help but smile happily as Watson smiled down at the boy in his arms. Holmes was once again struck by the unfairness of the world as the little boy's mangled legs were uncovered and Watson frowned sadly. In a heartbeat, however, the whole scene changed as the boy's vigorous kicking brought a smile once more to Watson's previously clouded expression.

Holmes very nearly lost his place in the music as his heart jumped a little painfully at the sight of his friend's returned smile. He was paying less than half attention to the children before him singing with mixed results to the sound of his violin as Watson took up the child and began bouncing him happily in the air. Even over the sounds of so many mingled voices in song, Holmes could clearly hear the squeals of undisguised glee from the little boy. For a moment, he wondered at what an incredible father his dearest friend would have been. Some small part of him still hoped that would one day be so. Then he was forced to bring his full attention back to the task at hand as several of the children began to get lost and forget the words.

After several moments of nearly ear-splitting shrieks of joy from Tommy, Watson again returned the boy to the more settled position on his knee and began bouncing him softly. He then returned his attention back to Sarah.

"I am sorry, Sarah, but there is little I can do for him now. As he gets older, there are ways he may be able to adapt. But, for now, keep his legs warm as best you can. And, try not to encumber him too much," Watson advised, as if speaking to a parent and not just another child. "He is more than ready to crawl, and though his legs are damaged, his knees would easily sustain the exercise. It would be good for him to learn to get around. Let him have as much freedom as he can without getting into trouble. Many obstacles he will learn to cope with all the better for having a chance to learn for himself."

Sarah appeared to listen intently, nodding to his instructions. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, Miss," Watson returned with a sincere smile as he continued to bounce the boy on his knee. "Now, how are you feeling?"

"Well, sir, thank you."

For a moment Watson eyed her critically before accepting her answer. "Would you care to assist me as I check on the others?"

"Yes, sir," she said, with a small smile of her own, warming to him quickly.

"Then would you be so kind as to bring me one of your friends with another little one? I'd like to check each of them over before attending to any injuries or illness."

In a moment she brought forth another little girl caring for her three-year-old younger sister. One by one Watson looked over all the youngest of the Irregulars. He then sent them off one at a time to join their friends around Holmes. As all of them appeared relatively healthy and uninjured, it didn't take very long at all for him to check them over. Then, as promised, he began having them fetch others one at a time that displayed any signs of illness or injury. Again, they appeared to have all been well-tended in recent weeks and had little need of his services beyond a couple of fresh bandages and an admonition to be more careful in the future. Before he realized it, however, he was now surrounded by nearly half of the Irregulars as they watched him intently.

Apparently these had gathered around on beds, places on the floor, and other convenient spots to watch him work as they had lost interest in Holmes' ongoing music lessons. Left with little else to do, he asked them if they would like some stories. Eager faces and bright eyes lit up as he regaled them with what he considered some of the more appropriate tales of his adventures with Holmes through the years. In no time, he had a devoted crowd of listeners waiting in perfect stillness to hear every word. Thankfully they were far enough away from the others he didn't need to raise his voice enough to disturb Holmes' still rather large group.

As he led into a story involving a thieving Santa Claus playing Robin Hood they had had the misfortune of chasing one holiday season, Watson was struck speechless as one little boy of no more than seven finally spoke up.

"He should have known better," the boy stated with bitterness. "Everybody knows there's no such thing as Santa Claus."

Several eyes in the crowd darkened in sadness, though none voiced any protest to this statement. Saddened himself by the disillusionment he should have known he would encounter amongst these bravely surviving children, Watson momentarily regretted having brought it up. However, his heart rebelled at such a sorry thing, even when faced with such a reality. Struggling to find a way to recover from this, he handed over the child most recently occupying his arms to another and motioned for the boy to come forward.

"And what is your name, sir?" Watson asked politely, keeping his smile firmly in place.

"Wally, sir."

Watson was struck straight to the heart by the somber brown eyes that now faced him squarely, as if daring him to contradict. Recognizing this was not to be an easy task, Watson assessed him quickly.

"Very well, then," he started, "why do you say there's no Santa Claus?"

"Because their isn't."

"And who told you that?"

"Everybody knows!" the boy burst out, frustratedly. "No one's ever seen the real one, just a bunch of men dressed up giving out gifts. They don't even have a sleigh or reindeer."

Finally coming up with an idea, Watson fell back on one of the oldest memories he possessed of days with his own brother so very long ago. "And do you know what happens to children who do not believe in Santa Claus?"

"They get nothing or coal in their stockings!" one child piped up cheerfully.

"Worse," intoned Watson darkly.

Now the boy's somber eyes took on a challengingly suspicious glare. "What?"

Watson whispered something in a low, menacing voice forcing all the children to lean closer to hear, though none quite caught what it was. With a wicked smile and mischievous glint in his eyes, he launched himself at the boy, taking advantage of his unbalanced position to successfully snatch him right off his feet. Before Wally even had a chance to comprehend the seriousness of his situation along with the change in both elevation and attitude, he was mercilessly attacked. For one stunned moment, every single child gathered around stared in wide-eyed shock as Watson's fingers dug into the boy's ribs. The peal of laughter half choked off by an indignant squeal of protest only further incited Watson. Like a man possessed, he found every exposed spot as the boy twisted violently in an attempt to escape his tormentor.

So engrossed was Watson in his endeavor that he failed to notice the growing silence from the other side of the room as Holmes' lessons came to an abrupt halt. Holmes had turned his attention to the scene just in time to see Wally finally make good his escape. But, much to his amusement, Watson lost no time in randomly grabbing another child not quick enough to get out of the way. He had only enough time to comprehend what it was he was seeing his friend getting into before it was too late. Even as Watson was twisting around to find a third victim, he was overwhelmed by a mass of children that dove forward to begin actively rescuing their own. And, approaching from every angle, they began to torment their tormentor.

Holmes only barely managed to place his violin aside in a place of safety as he bit back laughter at his friend's plight. By the time he turned around, it was just in time to see Watson toppled from his stool to lie helplessly squirming and shouting laughter of his own amid the squeals of so many little children. He winced inwardly knowing some of his friend's more recent injuries would not have appreciated such treatment. He did not want to contemplate how it was his friend managed to laugh through it. Not wanting to break up this little battle, Holmes approached slowly wondering if he really should wade in to help his friend in such an undignified moment. Seconds later, the decision was taken out of his hands as Jacob called out loudly.

"Just what do you think you're doing?!" he roared.

Silence descended on the gathered children in an instant. Knowing he had their undivided attention, as Watson lay panting on the floor, Jacob then continued, "I know I taught you all better than that. If you're going to attack a larger opponent, you have to work together!"

Holmes doubled over with laughter even as the children seamlessly and instantly formed up in perfect ranks in which to utilize their abilities to the fullest. No matter which way Watson rolled, squirmed, or twisted, there were a hands available to tickle him with as much mercy as he had shown his victims earlier. Wiping tears of laughter from the corner of his eyes, Holmes finally gave in to Watson's pleas for help. Even as he took a step forward, Jacob raised an eyebrow warningly.

"Please, Holmes!" Watson gasped in between barks of laughter. "You said you wouldn't abandon me!"

With a very obvious wince at this low-blow, Holmes shook his head at Jacob, gave a helpless shrug, and joined the fray. Before he'd even managed to reach his friend, a shrill whistle behind him sent the remaining Irregulars into action. In less time than it had taken him to process what had just happened, he found himself joining Watson on the floor under a merciless onslaught of countless fingers. All concept of time fled as he fought desperately against overwhelming numbers. In the end, it was Watson's waving white handkerchief that finally convinced their general to call a halt. It was several minutes before either of the two adults were able to seriously move back toward an upright position. For one moment, Holmes glared balefully at his dear friend before they both burst into a renewed fit of laughter soon joined by victorious cries from their captors.

"Good one, old man," Holmes congratulated as he helped his friend back to unsteady feet, "you've very thoroughly ensured defeat by launching a head-on assault on a far superior force. Are you mad?"

Still stifling giggles behind his mustache, Watson attempted to control himself once more as he shook his head. "Well, it worked. And I'll explain that little maneuver later."

By this point Jacob had managed to restore order to the victorious chaos around them. Again the children were moving themselves towards various seated positions throughout the shelter expectantly awaiting the next round of entrainment. All eyes once again returned to Watson and Holmes as they moved toward the sofa upon which they had originally been seated. After taking their seats, Holmes announced the presence of hot chocolate he had thus far kept concealed. Once again, their host rose to the occasion as he took command of the making and distribution of nearly three dozen cups of hot chocolate.

Just as they were settling back down, warming cups in every set of hands large enough to hold them, there came a furious pounding at the door that made several of them jump fearfully. Setting aside his cup, Jacob fairly flew at the door. Holmes watched with approval as he issued silent commands with his hands to several of the larger boys to take up defensive positions in the main living area. Cautiously Jacob began to open the door a crack before his hands fell limply in shock and the door swung open the rest of the way on its own.

"Jacob Williams?" came a commanding voice just beyond Watson's visual range.

"Who are you?" Jacob asked challengingly, having recovered from his apparent shock.

A moment later Watson nearly choked as he swiftly put a name to the voice. His head whipped around dizzingly fast as he turned his shocked expression to Holmes who only winked in response.

"Who do _think_ I am?" the voice responded in obvious disgruntlement. "And if you say you don't believe it, you'll be the first to find out otherwise, young man!"

Obviously Jacob had opened his mouth to say something, but quickly snapped his mouth shut at the imperious tone that cut him off. A moment later the same disgruntled voice began grunting and griping simultaneously in ways that once more had Watson biting back giggles.

"No proper roof! Ung, no chimneys!"

A large red-decked figure began to back his way through the door leaving Jacob no choice but to back out of his way and let him in as all eyes widened in absolute disbelief at the sight before them. Dragging a sack of nearly impossible proportions through the tiny doorway was none other than the sternly debated Santa Claus himself.

"How am I supposed to deliver all these blasted gifts with no rooftop to land on and no chimney?" grumbled Santa as he finally let the sack rest on the floor and stood up to face his audience.

Absolute silence greeted this question as all eyes continued to try to process what they were now seeing.

"Well, one would assume other, more modern means of transportation," Holmes finally responded drily.

"Humph!" Santa replied turning to face them. "Yes, unfortunately, we're a little behind the times being so far away at the North Pole."

Turning back to the children, however, he dropped his previous grumbling. "So, I finally managed to get in here. Unfortunately, my sleigh and reindeer are now stuck sitting around in the cold instead of comfortably resting on a nice, sturdy rooftop."

As shock began to give away to more rational thought, Holmes and Watson watched many faces take on a skeptical expression.

"Oh very well! Go ahead and take a look for yourselves," Santa grumbled once more. "Just remember, I'm not the one that's going to suffer when you catch a cold!"

In was a matter of seconds before half the shelter had emptied into the darkness beyond the door tramping down the thick layer of white, fluffy snow as they gathered around the eight reindeer and beautifully decorated sleigh parked in the remaining space of the plaza. Having followed them, Watson stared in absolute wonder not unlike the children at the sight before him. Knowing Holmes must have been planning this for far longer than he could have guessed, he watched the children slowly approach the eight bored-looking reindeer as if touching them were the only way to prove they were real. While they were occupied, Watson turned a wondrous glance at "Santa" and Holmes standing side-by-side just outside the doorway. The twin smiles of undisguised joy at the success of their little plot once again reminded Watson very clearly just how well-known his friend had become and in what circles of society.

His credentials now established, "Santa" then decided to call everyone back indoors to the warmth and the previously abandoned cups of hot chocolate. With Jacob's help, there was once again order amid the chaos as Santa took up his position at the opening of the sack. One by one, gifts labeled with each child's name were distributed to the appropriate recipient. Tears of happiness flowed freely as each child accepted their gift from Santa and paused to either shake his hand or hug him fiercely. Enthralled by the sight of it all, Watson sat back beside his dearest friend on the sofa and wondered, not for the first time, at the greatest of hearts that lay so well-hidden from the world behind the detective's great brain.

Though it had taken some time to go through all of them, not a single child walked away empty-handed. And the masses of ribbons and wrapping paper that littered the room were astounding. It seemed that not only had every single child received a gift, but it had been exactly what they had been wishing to receive—even while knowing it would never happen. Watson could not begin to fathom how Holmes and his cohort had managed that little feat. At least one of the Irregulars present had to have had a part in this. But, so far, he had yet to detect the faintest glimmer of anything other that absolute surprise and joy from any of them.

Finally done with the distribution and unwrapping of gifts, Santa neatly began to fold up his sack as he turned to the only two other adults present. With all his usual air of authority, he addressed them directly.

"I have, of course, left your presents at your residence, along with Mrs. Hudson's. Now, I still have many stops to make this night, so I will bid you all Merry Christmas."

Rising to his feet, a still somewhat stunned Jacob graciously saw his guest to the door. The room was filled with absolute silence as they all held their breath listening as the sounds of sleigh bells swiftly faded into the night. Eventually the awed silence was broken by a couple of stray yawns. Glancing at his watch, Watson only just realized it was now nearing midnight. While he was sorry to see their time here coming to an end, the children definitely needed their sleep. As if reading their minds, Jacob quickly turned to the others.

"All right, it's time for bed. Everyone get settled," he called out, walking up and down the rows of beds to help tuck in the children.

Once all of the children under the age of fifteen or so were settled into their own beds, he turned back to his guests. Holmes, by this point, had once again taken up his violin. Seeing a surprised, but welcoming nod from Jacob, Holmes began playing a slow whimsical piece Watson didn't recognize. After a few minutes there was no doubt that every child there had been lulled into blissful sleep by the beautiful music. Silently, he replaced his violin in its aging case and Watson gathered his medical bag. Completing his role as host, Jacob saw them outside before closing the door behind himself.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I cannot begin to tell you how much this night has meant to all of us," Jacob started, obviously holding back some emotion.

"Nonsense, Master Jacob," Holmes address formally. "It was for our own good, if you recall. Now, at least, I can rest peacefully tonight safe in the prospect of having avoided Mrs. Hudson's wrath."

To this Jacob chuckled softly as he quickly dashed tears from his eyes. "Nevertheless, I thank you, on behalf of all of us. Perhaps one day we can return this favor."

Holmes did not doubt for one second that the boy would do just that. Nodding slightly, he knelt down to meet the boy's gaze on even level.

"You just keep doing what you're doing, and find a worthy replacement when it's your time," Holmes stated squarely.

Choked with emotion, the boy nodded solemnly as the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. While giving all indication of having accepted this with all the seriousness and sincerity of an adult, Jacob still appeared no more than half his true age as the emotions broke beyond the barriers. Again Watson was struck by the burdens such young children must bear to not only survive, but do so under such circumstances. Even as the boy sniffed trying to compose himself, Holmes for the third time that day embraced someone in yet another uncharacteristic display of open affection. This time it only lasted a moment, before he released the boy and stood to leave.

"Merry Christmas, Jacob," Holmes said, turning to head out of the plaza and down the alley.

It wasn't until Watson caught up with his friend at the entrance to the alley that he spied Holmes wipe his gloved hand across his face suspiciously. Moments later they were back on Baker Street and heading carefully home through the accumulated snow along the sidewalk. Though it was only a few, short blocks, the exertions of the day combined with the lack of proper rest for almost two straight days had left Watson feeling every bit of his age. Not only were his leg and shoulder complaining bitterly, but he swore he could feel every injury he'd ever endured come back to haunt him.

Silently, Holmes took up the role of supporter as he had not done in many years. Keeping to a slow pace for his friend, he helped to ensure they maintained steady footing.

"Alright, Watson?"

"Never better, dear chap," Watson replied warmly.

Holmes smiled at the obvious sincerity of the statement, but still regretted not having a cab readily available for his friend. However, they were soon home and made their way back to the comfort of their wonderfully warm sitting room. He wasted no time helping his friend into his chair beside the fire where he could comfortably relax and prop his aching leg. Knowing Mrs. Hudson to likely be sleeping in exhaustion, he quickly and quietly fled to the kitchen to make some tea. By the time he returned, Watson was already snoring softly. Ensuring that his friend was properly buffered against the cold with another blanket, he took his own seat across from him. For the first time since Holmes could remember, both he and Watson slept in perfect peace.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

The first thing Watson was aware of feeling was the chill that had seeped into the edges of his consciousness. Shivering slightly, he unconsciously shifted lower in his chair as if trying to disappear completely under the blanket that had shifted down off his shoulders and chest. His second was the realization that this was not his bed, nor his comforter. The familiar sensation of sleeping in a chair as if on a vigil sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system that opened his eyes wide. In the heartbeat it took to realize he was in his own sitting room with Holmes curled contentedly asleep in his own chair, he relaxed again once more. As his heartbeat slowed, the chill that had first woken him penetrated his alert mind. Carefully he shifted his head enough to see the fire had all but gone out completely, and the blanket that now engulfed him was from Holmes' own bed.

Glancing around the pre-dawn darkness of the sitting room, Watson checked a sigh as he resigned himself to the abandonment of the warm comfort of the blanket. Not wanting the residual heat to go to waste, he quickly wrapped it around Holmes careful not to disturb his sleeping friend. Silently stretching out the kinks in his muscles, he wondered at how surprisingly refreshed he felt for so little sleep. After stoking the fire back into a small blaze, he slipped out of the room and up the stairs to his own room. In the hopes of surprising Holmes' with his gift while he slept, he quietly snuck into his own room. Even in the darkness there was something different that tickled his subconscious. Wary, he turned up the gaslight to spy the shape of a rectangular package resting neatly on his bed. It was small and wrapped rather plainly in brown paper. The red ribbon around the package seemed almost out of place, as if added only as an afterthought.

Smiling to himself, Watson shook his head in amusement. The man would never cease to amaze him. Knowing this could only have come from Holmes and this was Holmes' way of asking him to open it in private, he carefully took the little package in his hands as he sat upon his bed. Their like-minded thinking amused him as he recalled the gift he had had Mrs. Hudson leave on the pillow of Holmes' bed the night before. He wondered if his friend had even noticed it yet. His musings were interrupted as his dextrous fingers carefully untied the ribbon before unwrapping the paper.

The first edges of brown had him frowning a moment later as he forcefully ripped off the rest of the wrapping. Staring at the all too familiar Moroccan case in his hands, he was again wondering what going through his friend's mind with such a thing. Watson stifled his first reaction to take it down to the sitting room and throw the whole blasted thing into the fire. Seeing nothing on the outside to give away Holmes' intentions in this loathsome little present, Watson carefully opened the case. Inside the velvet lined case were the shattered remains of the syringe and a note. Watson's heart nearly stopped out of sheer disbelief.

Though neither had broached the subject in all these recent months, Holmes' note with a date from September told Watson all he needed to know. The man had amazed him once more. Not a single word had he spoken about his own discomfort during those weeks Watson had spent recovering. Not once had he given Watson any reason to suspect anything had changed in that quarter at all. The man had simply stopped, and suffered the consequences of the withdrawal alone. This proved to Watson more than any words ever could have, that his friend was serious.

Closing the Moroccan case for the last time with something approaching reverence, Watson carefully placed it in the top drawer of his bureau. The last vestiges of his depression having been successfully banished by this incredible gesture from his friend, Watson smiled down at the other larger gift he had intended for Holmes. Suddenly, it seemed entirely inadequate. Nonetheless, Watson took it by the handle and crept slowly down the stairs in silence.

~o~o~o~

The moment the sitting room door clicked quietly closed behind Watson's retreating form, Holmes silently flew from his chair toward his bedroom. He grumbled quietly under his breath at having fallen asleep before at least retrieving Watson's gift from his bedroom. He had intended for his friend to wake and find it sitting beside his chair. He continued his quiet mutterings as he turned up the gaslight in his room. His fingers froze as his keen eyes caught sight of the little package sitting serenely on his bed. He hadn't seen it the night before as he had taken the blanket off the bed in the darkness. Seeing the green-wrapped, red ribbon covered little package sitting upside down on the blanket beneath, he wondered for a moment.

He snickered to himself as he retrieved the package and sat with it in his lap. His Watson knew him well. Such a personal gift as that which he now held, was one his friend knew he would want to open alone. Briefly his mind flashed to the personal gift he had had Mrs. Hudson leave in Watson's room. Likely, he was opening his gift even now. Not knowing what was contained in these journals beneath the wrapping, but never doubting this incredible gesture of trust, Holmes' dextrous fingers quickly unwrapped the stack. As expected, the journals were brown, not red. They were not case notes, they were some of Watson's own personal journals. Three of them. He knew he didn't have much time before Watson would make his way back down to the sitting room, so he opened the top one to flip through it.

A moment later his fingers froze and his mind seized. He cocked his head at the image before him in absolute surprise. There, staring at him was one of Watson's own drawings of himself and a very pregnant Mary with Holmes' almost transparent image behind them. Words his mind could not at the moment comprehend covered the preceeding page. Shifting his fingers to better grip the journal, he was surprised when a folded note fell out. Setting aside the journal, he read the note. Holmes had never doubted his place in his friend's life, but this was more than he could have imagined. All those published accounts of cases after his disappearance at Reichenbach Falls had been Watson's way of keeping his friend alive in the eyes of the public. These journals, while not his primary ones, had been Watson's way of keeping his friend alive for himself.

_Mary reminded me that moving on does not have to mean forgetting. I promised Mary then, that I would move on; and so I did. I promised her again, more recently that I would do so. I would be honored, if you would share in these memories, as you were always there. ~Watson_

Feeling honored and humbled by this gift, Holmes again wondered what he had done to deserve such a friend. Nothing in his mind could compare to what he'd been given in the form of a former army surgeon all those years ago. Glancing once more at the other gift he had gotten for his dear friend, Holmes knew he was doing the right thing. Reverently placing those journals aside for later perusal, he hefted the package and headed back toward the sitting room.

~o~o~o~

He was met by Watson as he re-entered the sitting room.

_So much for Santa Claus_, Holmes thought to himself wryly as he met Watson's slightly uncomfortable expression with one of his own.

Recovering himself first, Watson closed the sitting room door behind himself as he approached their fireside chairs once more. "It would seem Santa did indeed stop by last night. I must remember to thank him for such a...remarkable...gift."

Grateful beyond words for this opening, Holmes set his own rather bulky item in Watson's chair as Watson did the same. "Indeed, it was more than I could have dreamt."

The two deliberately did not meet each other's eyes as the moment quickly passed. Each took up the gift the other had deposited. Watson eyed the large brown package with undisguised curiosity. Holmes, curiosity satisfied with his own more brightly wrapped package, eyed Watson instead with curiosity.

"A violin case," he stated.

"Well, yours has taken to looking rather worn of late. I thought you might appreciate a replacement."

"Thank you," Holmes said, unwrapping the package.

Preparing to transfer the precious contents of his old case, he opened the new one to find there was no room. Eyeing the glint in Watson's happy green eyes at his surprised expression, he forgot the other case altogether as his hands happily began to explore the contents of this one. Page after page after page of musical score had filled every inch of available space. Dozens of pieces Holmes could only distantly remember from even his earliest childhood now stared back at him. Complete pieces he had never thought to see again shuffled through his fingers. So lost was he in the music that now danced through his mind from all the notes jumping off the countless pages that he failed to notice the smile that lit his face with undisguised joy.

Seeing his friend's reaction and how lost he became in this gift, Watson knew he'd made the right decision. Eying his own from several different angles, without drawing attention to himself, Watson could not even begin to fathom what he now held.

"Would you care to share your deductions on this trifling matter, Watson?" Holmes teased.

Holmes had already stacked the countless musical scores neatly beside him on the table as he carefully transferred the intended contents to the new case. Not sure where to begin, Watson hefted the package carefully hearing a slight rattle inside he could not identify.

"It is of a single piece. While large, it is not particularly weighty. It contains within it various loose objects of a mix of materials. The person chose it for a specific purpose, though he felt wrappings and trimmings were a little more than nonsense."

"Well, then maybe you should satisfy your curiosity and open it," Holmes finally stated, his impatience showing through.

Cocking an eyebrow at his friend, Watson threw him a teasing look as he continued to take his time inspecting the object and its wrappings. Seeing Holmes fidget nervously in his chair pretending it really was a trifling matter to him, Watson finally chuckled and took pity on his friend. The first edges of leather his fingers revealed had his brow furrowing in deeper curiosity. His eyes grew wide as his brain finally managed to catch up to what his eyes were now seeing. He glanced at Holmes' encouraging nod before unfolding the object to rest perfectly in his lap.

It was a portable writing kit. Bound in leather, there were small pockets and slits for pens, ink, extra paper and more. When unfolded, it stiffened just enough to be the perfect size and firmness for use as a lap desk. With this he could sketch freely anywhere he chose without being hampered by the lack of surface.

"Well, if my Boswell is going to continue spending—as he put it—far too much time writing, then he should at least be properly equipped to do so."

Feeling his heart sinking, Watson brought his gaze back up to meet Holmes' encouraging smile. "Holmes, I—"

"Maybe not now, dear friend. But some day, I promise, you will publish again when it is safe to do so."

Watson took a moment to absorb this as his mind processed what Holmes had just said. He could not even put into words how much this endorsement of his writing meant to him.

"Thank you."

Holmes waved this off as he rose from his chair, "Nonsense, dear friend. I should be thanking you."

Lighting his freshly filled pipe, Holmes swiftly moved toward the sitting room door. Picking up with his keener senses what Watson could not, he opened the door just as Mrs. Hudson arrived with a tray of coffee. Sniffing fondly at his theatrical bow, she placed the tray on the table.

"Just as I suspected," she said, placing her hands on her hips. "Like a couple of little boys, you could not even wait for a decent hour."

"Then why, pray tell, are you about at such an ungodly hour?" Holmes shot back, fondly.

Watson stifled his chuckles behind his hand as Mrs. Hudson's face colored slightly. Wrapping herself in an invisible cloak of dignity she replied, "_I_ have tenants that will soon be expecting their breakfast."

"Ah, yes," Holmes said glancing at the clock as the first bluish hues lit the morning sky. "I believe that matter should already be settled as the new maid should be arriving shortly. The page boy should be attending his duties beginning on the morrow."

Holmes blithely went about pouring and preparing his cup of coffee as two sets of eyes bored holes into him. "Ah, an excellent brew as always, Mrs. Hudson."

Finally turning to meet their twin gazes, Holmes sipped contentedly at his coffee. "It has been brought to my attention recently that I am not only the worst tenant in all of London, but likely the most demanding upon your time as well. Therefore, it only seemed proper recompense that a maid and page-boy be employed to relieve you of some of the burden. The maid has agreed with an advance on her pay to be at your disposal this morning."

Realizing now that the young woman who had helped with the enormous amount of cooking and baking from the day before had, in fact, not been of temporary employment, Mrs. Hudson was at a loss for words. Finally she grunted something that sounded suspiciously like "worst tenants my foot" before smiling fondly at the both of them.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Holmes. But it was enough of a gift just having you two back under this roof to give me something to do with my time."

Not wishing to make her more eccentric tenant any more uncomfortable than he already was by such outspoken and sentimental statements, she turned to her other tenant. "As for you, Dr. Watson," she started sternly, "is it true?"

Now no less uncomfortable with the confrontation than Holmes, Watson colored slightly before meeting those soft brown eyes. Nodding he answered firmly, "Yes."

Mrs. Hudson's smile replaced the sunrise for its brilliance that morning as her heart felt near to exploding with joy. "Thank you. Mary was very special, and I am honored to do so."

His features twitching with undisguised curiosity, Holmes watched this exchange as he sipped his coffee serenely. He almost considered vacating the sitting room moments later as Mrs. Hudson drew Watson into a motherly embrace. It only lasted a moment, but Watson's relief was visible as Mrs. Hudson dashed the remnants of tears from her eyes and regained her composure.

"Merry Christmas, gentlemen," she said, taking the empty tray with her as she exited the sitting room.

Watson sank heavily into his chair across from Holmes as he reached for the coffee. Catching sight of Holmes' silently questioning eyebrow cocked in his direction, he gave Holmes a mischievous grin over his cup, deliberately tormenting his friend.

"Merry Christmas, Holmes."

Resigning himself to getting an answer only when Watson himself was ready, Holmes raised his cup slightly.

"Merry Christmas, Watson."

* * *

A/N: So ends Part III. Fluffy little interlude with some revealing details, nothing more. Nonetheless I hope it works, and you all enjoyed it. See you later in Part IV.


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